First
by Sparkly Palm Tree
Summary: Slade would be lying if he said he wasn't impressed.
1. The Best

**no ownership**

Slade would be lying if he said he wasn't impressed.

The boy was more talented than he'd originally anticipated. He stood out among his neophyte teammates like a god, despite the disadvantages of his age and size. Slade had seen the boy's biological father, and it was obvious the lad would grow to be much taller, much stronger.

As for age, the child - because that's really what he was, at barely thirteen - compensated for his short lifetime with five years of experience (more than a good part of the Justice League), a deadly aim, a piercing wit, and maturity that made a grown man look like a toddler. Not to mention the sense of humor. But best of all, the boy was young enough to still be influenced.

To still be molded into something greater than a tight-wearing crime fighter.

The child also had a not-so-subtle grace to him, like every action was part of a performance. The moves should have been impossible to pull off - he'd been under the impression that no one could do a quintuple or even a quadruple flip, no one alive anyway - but were executed perfectly. Fluid, but disciplined.

Such potential in that tiny, lithe body.

In fact, he considered abandoning his plan of taking the boy now in favor of more observation, but brushed the idea off. Now was the best time to act, and he knew the boy's moves well enough to analyze his every twitch. Besides, Deathstroke had already implemented a. . . situation in Gotham that would hold the Caped Crusader's attention for at the least, a few hours.

By the time Batman noticed the absence of the Boy Wonder, it would be too late. Robin wouldn't be his protégé anymore.

Of course, Deathstoke wasn't the only one to want the little bird. In fact, almost all, of the criminals or organizations Robin had fought against had taken a special interest in him. Kobra, the League of Shadows, the Court of Owls, even the scum of Gotham City had plans to recruit the boy. Deathstroke was just the first.

He slunk down from the shadowed perch where he'd been watching the battle between his robots the Team (as though their loose association warranted the title, especially with their lack of coordination).

The leader, Kaldur'ahm was proving himself a fierce warrior, one that would make his father proud, but obviously held back, for fear of hurting the onslaught of ninjas hurtling at him. Sportsmater's girl had yet to take down her fourth robot. Her father certainly wouldn't be proud. She had clearly grown dependent on her long range weapons. The speedster had succeeded only in getting injured an in the way. He was unconscious, but had only taken on two of his lackeys. The Martian was trying - and failing, obviously - to read the minds of their attackers. Really, hadn't any of them realized the robot detail yet?

The Superboy didn't look as though he cared either way, hurling the ninjas through the thick walls of the warehouse.

But his future protégé had noticed. He felt a little surprised at the rush of pride he felt at the title as the pile of goons to Robin's side grew steadily. The boy wasted no more than five moves on any of them before they were debilitated, shut down for good.

Slade kept in the shadows as he glided behind his new apprentice. Robin took down the final robot with a savage kick to the head, which went flying off through one of the many holes Superboy had caused, leaving just the jungle of rainbow wire sticking out of metal shoulders. There were a good 35 "men" lying in a heap.

He couldn't help the grin that crept onto his hidden face as the thirteen year old whirled around, resting the end of his bō staff on Slade's throat.

"Hello there, Robin," Slade said, extracting his own bō staff.

The boy's fighting prowess was incredible, but it really wasn't a fair fight. Slade pushed him back to the entrance of the warehouse, using his enhanced strength to emphasize his hits. Nonetheless, the child managed to land more than a few impressive hits.

Slade took a swipe at the lad's feet, but the boy took it as an entrance, somehow using the staff as leverage to vault over the Terminator, landing on the roof.

Perfect.

He discarded the useless staff, snatching his katana.

The roof was coated in even more snow than the ground they'd been on before, and would probably muffle the sounds of their fight from that rookie Team, giving Slade another advantage.

He stood behind the Boy Wonder, debating whether to beat the boy into submission, or just neutralize his alliances to the Justice League. No, no, he wanted the boy to keep that fierce determination for his cause. He would show the child the Light, just as the Batman had shown him the Dark.

The Batman carried a whole other set of issues; they clearly were father and son (maybe not by blood, but still by bond, the way Robin and _he_ would grow to be) and he was sure Batman would stop at nothing to find his precious little bird.

A strong kick to the chest beat him out of his thoughts. The boy had managed to land another hit. Admirable.

The real battle began. Slade slashed Robin across the chest, cutting through the layers of armor, and leaving the boy a deep bloody gash. He didn't even seem to notice as he pounded on Deathstroke with his escrima sticks.

"No way you're one of those robots," Robin said as he leapt over a high kick. "You're probably in charge of the shipment, but who are you?"

"Hasn't the big, bad, Bat told you about me?"

"He tells me lots of things. That doesn't mean I always listen- ah," the boy barely even cried out as Slade snapped his left ankle. Pain tolerance was acceptable, but there was always room for improvement.

He managed to parry a blow to his head, but left his chest open for attack. The Terminator swung the blunt face of his sword into the child's chest, nodding at the satisfying cracks that followed. The boy still managed to send an escrima stick at his jaw with enough strength that even with his thick metal mask on, his jaw cracked.

"Then _listening_ will be the first thing we work on."

The boy looked excited by his advancement, and fought with renewed vigor, actually managing to pop his future master's shoulder out of socket. Slade quickly relocated it, torn between pride and exasperation.

He pushed the boy to the edge of the roof, so that Robin's toes and supreme balance were the only thing keeping him from falling the 26 feet to the ground. With his ankle and ribs splintered like that, he surely couldn't land on his feet or even do a somersault, and Slade was rather interested in what he'd do.

They kept the battle on even at the brim, staffs still meeting the blade in the air between them. The assassin managed to get his blade into his future protégé's right shoulder. The whites of the mask widened comically, and Robin lost his balance as soon as the sword was retracted, tumbling off the side.

The boy tucked in in himself, somehow managing - just one - a somersault before he extended a hand as he reached the ground. He extracted his other palm, propelling himself forward on the ground, and performed a rudimentary cartwheel.

"Good," Slade said, once again impressed by Robin's skill. "For a moment there, I worried you wouldn't make it."

The boy was breathing hard, but the whites of his mask narrowed dangerously in a glare. How cute.

He charged as best he could at the master assassin, anger clearly substituting his better judgement.

Deathstroke continued to push him away from the warehouse, intending to further isolate the boy so he could finally make his proposal. Not that Robin could say no.

But the falling incident fueled Robin's warrior spirit, and his skills seemed to have grown exponentially, not enough to beat him however.

When they were a good hundred yards off of the warehouse, Slade stopped, deciding Robin wouldn't let himself get any further from his 'friends'.

He grabbed Robin's arm, the right one - the side in which he'd been stabbed in the shoulder, and bent it back at an angle that should have been impossible.

He pulled harder on the arm when Robin didn't cry out.

"What do you want?" Robin hissed.

"Why," Slade began. "I want you, little Robin. As my apprentice."

Robin went rigid. " _Never_."

Slade shook his head.

"Tt. If you won't do it for me, perhaps you'll do it for your little friends. You see, if I press this little button, that entire warehouse will explode, along with everything in it."

To his credit, the boy barely whimpered as he pulled his arm even harder, until finally a loud pop sounded. "Y-you wouldn't. Then your shipment would be-"

"That little exchange? Only to attract your attention, little bird. And of course, to inject your friends with nanoscopic probes, for a little extra . . . incentive."

The lad said nothing, so Slade yanked on the injured limb. Hard. This time the boy cried out. "And the probes, if injected into the bloodstream, could kill, but only if activated. And only I can activate and deactivate them. So what do you say, Robin?"

"I-I-" Robin stuttered.

"Tick Tock, little bird."

"I'll do it," the boy whispered, sounding defeated.

Slade grinned. He did **_so_** like to win.


	2. The Worst

**Oh my sweet goodness.**

 **You people amaze me. 9 follows. 6 reviews. In a couple hours? I'm** **flattered. I never understood why people liked reviews so much 'til I started posting, but now like even totally harsh criticism is like "gimme!" (Picture that being said in a golem voice). Love you guys! I didn't plan on continuing** **, but now. . . I do intend on leading somewhere original with this story, but for now, it's going to be your average apprentice fic (just not as good as some of them because wow, some are like :-0 you sir are the great gatsby of writing). I love it how authors notes have like terrible grammar and punctuation and capitalization. Has anyone else noticed that? Oosh! Also, new ideas for a title? Impressions sounds so cliche. But so is everything else I do.**

 **I give you. . . Impressions! No but seriously I need a new title. Kaldur is my Sweet baby but he's so hard to write. Ok, NOW, I give you impressions.**

* * *

Kaldur'ahm knocked out the last of his ninjas, and looked up to see how his team was faring. The only one still fighting was Artemis, and even she was finishing her last opponent. Kid Flash's arm was wrapped around Miss Martian's neck, and was limping, but he appeared to be the only one injured. Superboy was frowning and staring off at the wall, head cocked as if listening for something.

They had successfully stopped the shipments. The only hitch - if it could be called that - in the mission had been an odd beam given off by one of the crates.

"Robin," Kaldur said. "Contact the League, our mission has been completed." The League would be proud, it marked one of their first successful missions since the team's formation. But Kaldur couldn't shake the feeling of uneasiness. They had been victorious, so why did it feel like they had lost?

Artemis looked around. "Robin isn't here." Worry washed over him like Atlantis' tides.

Wally, whose eyes had previously been closed, shot up. "Whatdidyousay?" his eyes darted around the warehouse. "What?Thisdoesn'tmakeanysense."

"Let us not panic yet," Aqualad said, trying to assuage his own anxiety. "Perhaps he has merely-"

"No," Conner interrupted suddenly, sounding guilty. "I heard something, but I thought it was just excess noise, and ignored it."

Artemis narrowed her eyes, stepping forward so she was right in front of Superboy. "You ignored it?" The archer hissed. "You hear something suspicious and you don't think to tell us?"

"It's not his fault!" M'gann cried, flying in front of Conner to defend him. "He can't control his powers!"

"For once, I agree with her!" Wally said, stepping beside Artemis. "We're a team, you have to tell us if-"

"Stop," Kaldur intervened, before the fight got any worse. "We will look for Robin immediately. We are wasting time fighting in here."

While the rest of them filed out of the warehouse, Kid Flash zipped out, and his emerald eyes widened in horror.

The feeling in Kaldur's stomach seemed to grow heavier. As he met the speedster in the snow, he had to keep himself from doing the same thing for the sake of the team.

There was evidence of a battle on the roof, snow piled off. A discarded bō staff, tow discarded escrima sticks. Two sets of footprints, one undeniably Robin's (he could tell from the size) led all over the snow. But the most compelling indication of a fight was the trail of red that led from the roof to an unidentified point in the distance, where the footprints and the red just stopped.

Blood.

Robin's blood. The youngest's blood. The child who might as well be his younger brother's blood.

Kaldur whirled around until he faced the wall of the warehouse and plunged his fist into, hearing the satisfying crunch of the metal beneath his knuckles. He'd left a crater reminiscent of Superboy.

The Team was watching him with shock, and he quickly withdrew his hand. He was the eldest, the leader, he had to maintain his composure.

"Miss Martian, alert the League immediately. We have run into. . . complications. Tell them to bring Batman, regardless of where he is. This is urgent." The girl rushed off to the Bioship.

Kid Flash - as Robin's best friend, he'd been taking it even harder than the rest - frowned, not tearing his eyes from the scene. "What do you think happened, Kal?"

Kaldur had to force himself to answer evenly. "I fear-" he stopped, surveying the scene, the weapons, the blood and the footprints.

"I fear the worst."

* * *

Bruce was honestly considering breaking his code in favor of shoving kryptonite into that damn alien.

That damn alien who kept calling him, despite his current predicament. The predicament being the breakout from Arkham that involved the escape of every. Single. Prisoner.

The breakout was obviously the work of someone from outside, someone totally sane. It stunk of Deathstroke.

He loathed Deathstroke. The man was practically invulnerable, and it had taken more than half the League to take him foil his plot last time. The assassin had only one missed kill on record, which was especially impressive considering the vast number of kills he had made. The worst crime he'd committed - in Batman's book - was his interest in Robin. He knew his protégé was exceptional, but he tired of every villain they encountered attempting to recruit **_his_** little bird.

Deathstroke was by far the most persistent of the villains. Not as persistent as a certain damn alien, but too obstinate.

God, he needed Robin here right now. Who knew how safe he was with all the psychopaths running around. He was definitely going to limit his boy's time with his team. Gotham needed him more. **_He_** needed him more.

As he tossed the unconscious Joker to a group of the incompetent Arkham guards, he finally accepted the incoming call from Superman.

"Listen, Kryptonian, this better be **_damn_** good because I've got hundreds of the world's most dangerous, most psychotic murderers running around **_my_** city."

The Man of Steel didn't falter at all. "The League is sending backup now. But you need to get to the Team's mission coordinates, right now."

Batman stopped tying up Scarecrow for a brief moment as the words sunk in. "Why?" He drawled, not bothering to hide the venom in his voice.

"It's Robin," He froze completely then. He threw the debilitated Jonathan Crane at the guard's feet, just as he saw the incoming silhouettes of the Justice League. "Or, a lack thereof."

He glided past Wonder Woman who was at the head of the group. "Don't screw up," he hissed, but his mind was on other things. He should have been monitoring the mission. The only reason he wasn't was because of the breakout. He went all the faster as the pieces came together in his mind.

They didn't make a pretty picture.

* * *

Slade carried **_his_** protégé into his lair.

He'd drugged the boy, but after the beating he'd taken, his body didn't need much persuasion. He'd collapsed then and there. For a long moment, he stared at the tiny boy. His short ebony hair curled on his forehead, and Slade brushed it away. He'd removed the domino mask before the boy had given into sleep, and was taken aback by the shocking blue eyes. Now those eyes were closed, the long eyelashes touching his cheeks. The child breathed in and out so softly that for a few terrible seconds he'd thought the boy had stopped breathing altogether. He already thought of this child as his son, and soon Robin would learn to see him as a father.

Robin would have to.

Because the drug would take away the memories of any father but him.


	3. The In Between

**Do I own?**

 **Yeeeeeeess- ok, you got me. I don't own anything DC.**

 **Dat=dad in Romani**

 **Don't really like most of this, but I think the ending for this chapter is good. Mostly just a set up one tho.**

 **Question of the day! Is polish a language?**

"Batman! Bruce! Dat!"

Apparently the boy talked in his sleep. They would have to fix that.

The drug didn't appear to be taking effect yet, but that was to be expected. It had to run it's full course, which could take hours. Not to mention he _knew_ it worked. He'd tested it on a lackey. They were much more expendable than the boy.

But Slade wasn't sure how much of Robin's personality would remain, seeing as his goons didn't have any outstanding character traits.

" _Shh_ , little bird."

He would rebuild the boy from the ground up.

* * *

Batman ran through the sixteen most logical scenarios _again_.

Each one of them had a flaw, a reason it wouldn't work. But Number 14 especially had taken a firm root in his mind.

But it wouldn't have made sense. That one implied Robin was led out of the warehouse, where he flipped onto the roof and the attacker followed him. Robin would have been injured and lost his balance, dropping his escrima sticks along the way.

That was the idiosyncrasy. His ward - his mind crept back to the papers in his desk, waiting to be signed - wouldn't just discard his escrimas, he was trained better than that. And Robin _certainly_ wouldn't lose his balance. He was meticulous about balance, which was understandable considering the incident.

But it looked as though Robin had made it safely down, where the fight resumed, if the two sets of footprints were any indication. Not uninjured (if the trail of red had anything to say about it), but alive. It appeared Dick had been baited away from where the exchange would have happened. Then, the prints just stopped.

The only thing left was the 'R' emblem.

He'd clearly been taken. Maybe by one of Gotham's resident psychopaths, a criminal organization, or. . . .

"Damn!" Batman swore, whirling around to face the Team.

Guilt was etched deeply on all of their faces, but most pronounced on Superboy and Aqualad.

They shifted awkwardly under his glare.

Bruce was not in the mood to deal with this. He'd start with Superboy. Damn aliens. "What?" he snarled.

"I heard something during the fight, but I just brushed it off," the clone said, not having the nerve to look him in the eye for more than a few seconds. More than Clark anyway.

He narrowed his eyes further. "What _exactly_ did you hear?"

"A man's voice. It said 'Hasn't the big bad Bat told you about me?' I didn't think it was important, but-"

"But it didn't strike you that there was an actual human fighting Robin while you fought robots?" Batman didn't bother keeping venom out of his tone.

Kaldur'ahm looked shocked, silver eyes wide as he stepped forward. "Robots, Batman?"

Bruce kicked the head of a fallen attacker, not breaking Aqualad's gaze as the metal mask rolled around. He finally turned his stare back to Conner.

"What did you hear next?"

"N-nothing, I tried to tune it out to focus on-"

Batman whipped around, not bothering to pay attention to the rest of the clone's **_excuses_**. He glided over to the 'R' emblem, tucking it into his hand. He made his way to the Batwing, gripping the monogram like a life line as he took his cowl down.

He didn't have time for this.

 _Robin_ didn't have time for this.

* * *

Blue eyes shot open.

He took in the unfamiliar man before him, analyzing him. He wore an eyepatch, and an ensemble that was very clearly heavily armored, Kevlar _everywhere_. With that much coverage, weak spots would be rare but extremely vulnerable. Guns occupied the holsters at his waist, and presumably, blades filled the sheaths on his back. The man was clearly left handed, but maybe only to compensate for the blindness on that side. Despite his extensive armory, the man - maybe in his late thirties - held a fond expression on his face. However affectionate his gaze was, the man's gloved hand was rested on his holster.

In short, a threat.

The room he was in was white everywhere, the only exception of color being the man beside him, and the faint outline of a door. A door. He fought a smirk.

He flipped over the man, jabbing him in the armor's approximated weak spots - how did he know to do that anyway? - propelling himself towards the door.

Locked. As usual. He had no idea what that meant.

He felt his eyes widen. He had no idea what _that_ meant either. Panic gripped at his throat as he tried to take a deep breath. He focused on what he _did_ know.

He was. . . thirteen? That felt right. His name was . . .Grayson? He was awesome, if that somersault hadn't made it obvious. That was all. And, oh, yeah, (how could he forget?) he was in a locked room with a strange threatening man.

Grayson (not a bad name, he had to admit) narrowed his eyes at the man.

"Who are you?" he hissed, back pressed against the white wall. Stalling was always good. Especially when you weren't _really_ stalling and needed information.

"Not to be _cliche_ ," the man chuckled, removing his hand from his gun to rest it on Grayson's shoulder. "But, I am your father."


	4. The Cause

**Whoop! I've got to love you guys. I published this story like five days ago, and it's already gotten over a thousand views. So I decided to do a little shoutout to those who commented on Chapter Three.**

 **Nightwriter222: Thank YOU for the title and awesome ideas!**

 **KaliAnn: Thank you loads for taking the time to review all my chapters! Really appreciate it!**

 **Merirosvo: I loved reading your review! And you're doing fine, I would never have guessed English wasn't your first language.**

 **Guests: Really glad you like it so much!**

 **Chibihyu: thanks!**

 ** _Shaza_ : awesome name! and this is an update!**

 **Ok, I don't really like how this turned out. . . . But, whatever!**

 ** _READ: Wintergreen is Slade's butler in the comics, NOT an oc._**

 ** _also, you may want to retread the last chapter before this._**

* * *

Grayson stared at the man blankly.

"What?" Stalling was definitely out the figurative window now.

This guy - his father, apparently - did look exceptionally. . . paternal towards him. He clapped his other hand on Grayson's shoulder and knelt down in front of him.

This guy was either a giant or, more likely, Grasyon was short. Maybe it was a combination of both, because he didn't even make it up to his 'father's' shoulder.

"What do you remember?" The man asked calmly, looking him dead in the eye.

He tried to jerk backwards, but the man was inhumanly strong, and his grip on his shoulders only tightened. He settled for narrowing his eyes. "Why would I tell you?"

The man chuckled. "Good point. An excellent point, in fact," his lips whirled upwards as Grayson felt a rush of pride. Why did praise feel so. . . surprising? "But at least tell me if you remember your name, _little bird_."

Grayson stiffened at the nickname. _'Little Bird'._ It was undeniably parental. It was familiar and comforting, and sent a pleasant warmth up his spine. ' _Little Bird'._ The name sounded personalized, made exclusively for him, a thread to his past. ' _Little Bird_ '. He would remember that.

"Grayson," he said carefully, trying to push the sudden trust he felt for the man down. "My name is Grayson."

The man - it was more than a little easier to see him as his father now - smiled kindly down at him, looking genuinely pleased at his response. "Good, my boy. You didn't forget _everything_."

Grayson didn't smile back just yet, just leaned farther from his grasp. The man definitely noticed, and his eyes sparkled proudly, as if his resistance was somehow amusing. "Come," the man said, standing up and removing a hand from Grayson's shoulder to open the supposed-to-be-locked-door easily.

He didn't move, just stared at the now open door. "How did you do that?"

"My boy," his 'father' chuckled. "You're supposed to _push_ , not pull."

* * *

"Master Wayne?"

Bruce grunted in response, not looking up from the many computer screens.

"Perhaps it would be beneficial if you took a brief respite. You haven't stepped out of this cave in days, much less eaten or slept," Alfred pressed gently, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"No," Bruce said determinedly, keeping his voice in the raspy growl of the Dark Knight. "I won't sleep, not while Dick is with that _thing_. Who knows what Deathstroke is doing to him?" _I need to be alone._

Bruce thought again of the unsigned papers in his desk. He vowed that when - _when_ , not if, _never_ if - he got Dick back, he would ask the boy immediately. He'd been holding onto them since Dick's thirteenth birthday, even though he'd wanted to since the first year they'd met. He'd been afraid of replacing the boy's first parents. After all, that was why they'd met, why they'd bonded. What if the boy hated him for wanting to adopt him, and severed all ties to Bruce? He couldn't imagine a life without his Robin.

But now he was afraid he would have to.

He felt the pressure on his shoulder vanish, and he couldn't help but regret pushing Alfred away. He wanted to call out to his oldest friend, to sob into his shoulder like he was eight years old again. He didn't.

Bruce heard no footsteps indicating the butler's exit, only the whirring of the elevator. The older man was completely silent in his footfalls until a very soft whooshing sound, indicating his turning. He could just picture Alfred whipping around to face him.

"Very well, Master Bruce," his loyal friend said quietly. "But if I may?"

The billionaire tried to look busy with the words flashing across the screen, but strained his ears to hear the next words. He nodded, encouraging elaboration.

"Bring our boy back home."

* * *

Slade smiled at the child - his child, now - as he guided him out the door.

'Grayson' was obviously still wary of him, leaning far away from him as Slade gave him the grand tour of his - rather impressive, if he did say so himself - new home. Or, mansion, more specifically.

But the ' _little bird'_ comment had proven to be extraordinarily. . . effective. It obviously had held a deeper meaning to the boy, that he hadn't previously been aware of, that the boy himself probably wasn't aware of anymore.

He was pleased, to say the least, as he watched the child's bright blue eyes light up upon seeing the training room. Good, the serum had only killed his memories, not habits or reflexes.

The house was quite large, and Slade didn't bother to show Robin the entirety of it.

"What else do you remember?" he asked 'Grayson' (the quintuple flip made sense now, especially after seeing the Boy Wonder's maskless face) as he showed his protégé his new quarters.

"Not much," Grayson said tentatively after a long beat of silence. "My age, my name . . and that's about it."

"Then I suppose I'll have to reintroduce you to someone," Slade smirked. The drug had certainly been effective. He would have known if the boy been lying.

"Wintergreen!"

Within a few moments, a poshly dressed older man entered the room, face twisted into a frown.

"He's an old friend," Slade explained, gauging the boy's face.

Wintergreen lifted a silver eyebrow. "I object _only_ to the 'old' part of that statement," the former military seargent quipped, before turning to the thirteen year old in front of him. "I'm a butler, young sir."

Robin stumbled back, eyes wide as he clutched his head, fingers digging into the cranium painfully. The boy screwed his eyes shut and swayed.

"A-Alfred?"

 _Damn_. Maybe the drug hadn't been as effective as he thought. He exchanged looks with the butler.

He didn't know who Alfred was, or why Wintergreen would have sparked a memory of him.

"Perhaps you should rest," Slade suggested to the ebony in front of him. This _was_ the boy's new room after all.

"N-no," Grayson murmured, before repeating it in a stronger voice. "No. I'm fine. I just. . . " He trailed off, cracking a sapphire eye open, before clenching his eyelids suddenly. He fell forward, unconscious. Slade caught him instantly.

The gray haired man beside him shook his head, tutting disapprovingly. "I suppose it _was_ a lot to take in."

"Not to mention his stitches have reopened," Slade added, not appreciating his former mentor's tone. "Like it or not, Wintergreen, this child is _mine_ now, not the Batman's or the Justice League's or yours for that matter-"

"Of course," Wintergreen cut him off. "You know that. I know that. The boy will come to see it as that. But the Batman _doesn't_. He's been searching for you."

"Let him come. Let him _try_."


	5. The Effect

_I make absolutely no profit from the production of this Fanfiction_ _, thus I don't own the massive company of DC._

 _thought it was time for a refresher disclaimer._

 _So here is Slade and "Grayson". heh._

 _this is a filler chap_

 _dirty sherbet_

 _so sorry! I was planning on doing updates every night but. Uh. I didn't. So I am now, since I won't be able to all of next week._

* * *

Grayson shifted in and out of consciousness.

Once, he'd awoken to a sharp needle prick in his arm. Another time, to a familiar voice of low timbre. He'd even managed to open up his heavy eyes once, seeing the orange and black clad figure of the man who claimed to be his father. He'd managed to take in a stark white room before the astoundingly bright lights and the immense weight of his eyelids had forced him back into slumber.

But most of the time, he stayed in a purgatory between awareness and unawareness (but shouldn't it have been just _wareness?)._

Not fun.

What was even _less_ fun was waking up. His body ached. No- scratch that. Only his right shoulder, right arm, ribs, head, wrists, and left ankle hurt. _Silly him,_ he drawled in his very painfully throbbing head.

Grayson forced his eyes open. They didn't feel like an elephant was sitting on them anymore, so that was a plus. Elephants. A feeling of déjà vu washed over him, but he made himself focus.

The guy was still right next to him. _Still_. He didn't know if the man was a very obvious stalker or just a very committed 'father', but he was _kind_ _of_ leaning towards the former.

The man smiled at him. He grunted.

"Well, good morning to you _too_."

Grayson closed his eyes again. _Sound hurt- noted._

"Come on, then," the man said, pausing just a beat too long before tacking on an afterthought. "Grayson."

He stood up slowly, putting most of his strength into not droping to his knees. "Wait," he croaked. Why was he croaking? Honestly, his head hurt even worse now then before. "I have questions."

"The meaning of life?" The man stood up, heading towards the door, clearly expecting him to follow. "Well, even _I_ don't know everything. My best guess would be autonomy. Survival."

Grayson forced himself to take a step forward. And another. Left, right, left, right.

"That's not what I meant. Who are you? Who am _I_? Where are we? Why don't I remember anything?" _Why does everything hurt so much?_ He didn't ask that one, because admitting pain was admitting weakness, and weaknesses weren't to be tolerated, not to mention they could be exploited. He kept his eyes on the floor, feeling weaker than he could ever remember being before. Not that he could remember much.

"I suppose you are owed an explanation," the man mused. Grayson was getting a little tired of calling him 'the man'. He wanted a name to nail to the face. "As for your first question, I've already answered it."

He suddenly felt very bitter.

"I meant your first name, _Pops_ ," he hissed, sarcasm leaking in, even though every sense he had told him that this man was not to be trifled with.

His self proclaimed 'father' laughed, reaching over to put a gloved hand on the small of his back in order to lead him forward. The contact was surprisingly. . . comforting, but he leaned away nonetheless.

"Slade," the man said suddenly. "My name is Slade. But many know me best as Deathstroke. I am a mercenary."

He should have been surprised. He really, _really_ should have. But Grayson just _wasn't_. And he didn't know why. It seemed like he didn't know anything anymore. The man who was claimed to be his father was an assassin. If this 'Slade' was who he said he was, this was just another Tuesday for them.

He made a humming sound.

"Your name is Grayson, you often go by Grant. You are thirteen. You operate as my protégé, under the alias _Renegade_. Perhaps most importantly, you are my son."

Well, this threw him off. Just a notch. _Renegade_ , he thought. It was probably the least significant information of what he'd just been given, but somehow the most intriguing. Besides, of course, the whole paternity thing. "Why Renegade?"

As cool as it sounded, Renegade meant betraying something. He didn't want to be a traitor, especially not to something he had no memory of.

Slade waved his hand dismissively. "It sounded good with Deathstroke."

He couldn't help it, he snorted, and he hoped it sounded acridly as he narrowed his eyes. "Better than Deathstroke Junior, I guess."

"Oh, certainly," Slade agreed cheerily. "I believe your next inquiry regarded. . . location, no?"

He nodded.

"Welcome back home, lad."

Okay, this had shocked him. This place was a mansion. Huge, with lavish decorations. Nice. Clearly, mercenary work payed well. But _where_?

"And, before you strain your voice box further, Montreal."

Canada. For a boy who knew absolutely nothing about his life prior to what he'd been told in the past couple hours, he knew an awful lot about Montreal.

The metropolitan area population was an estimated 4.1 million, meaning this place had to be on the border of the city, out of view and out of mind for most Canadians. Most likely in a densely forested areas, if there were any in such a heavily populated city. Wait. Where was he pulling this stuff from?

Maybe it was because he _had_ lived here? A mansion, an overpopulated city, an elderly butler, a dangerous man/father all seemed very. . .familiar.

"As for your memory, or lack thereof, you can blame a failed reconnaissance mission. You were heavily injured by the brats of the Justice League," Slade clarified.

"The. . . 'Justice League'?" he asked slowly before letting out a short laugh. "That's even worse than Deathstroke Junior," he mumbled.

Slade smirked. "Indeed," he led Grayson into large room with a giant fireplace and floor to ceiling windows, showing off an equally huge and extravagant garden, blanketed by snow. "You fell a height equivalent of a three story building, after getting stabbed, and proceeded to get beaten even further."

That _would_ explain the pounding in every inch of his body, but something of the story didn't ring true. He didn't know anything about the Justice League, much less 'their brats', but it felt odd, thinking that they'd almost killed him.

"Tea?" Slade asked primly.

Grayson shook his head, despite his throat's dry, almost burning sensation.

"Well, if we're done with social obligations, I believe we can continue to the fun part, _Renegade_."

"The. . . fun part?" he asked hesitantly.

"I suppose you could call it. . . conditioning."

* * *

Alfred T.C. Pennyworth considered himself an exceptionally flexible man, but he still couldn't shake off certain habits.

Like looking up to the chandelier every few minutes of so, only to remember no one might have climbed it.

Like setting out an extra place in the dining hall, only to be be greeted with yet another empty seat.

Like entering the Young Master's room to wake him up for the day, only to realize the room had already been vacated.

He tried as best he could to curb them, in efforts to spare himself unnecessary pain, but it seemed every object in the vast Manor had a memory or anecdote attached to the missing boy.

Perhaps the worst habit he held was the baking. It was utterly irrational, he knew, and the butler had already thrown out several uneaten batches.

But he wanted to give the child he regarded as a grandchild something more to come home to than a distant old butler and overprotective billionaire in a large silent Manor.

The silence. It was unbearable, and Alfred had absolutely no clue how he'd dealt with it prior to Richard's inclusion to the household. It wasn't the type of silence that dramatics described as loud, but it still left a ringing sensation in his ears, and no matter how stealthy he was, nothing could hide the slapping of his soundless silicon boot soles hitting the cold floor. He was the only one in the Manor nowadays.

Master Bruce had barricaded himself in the cave, whether to grieve or continue looking fruitlessly through files and searches he'd already scoured dozens of times, he didn't know.

He was in no means happy that the boy was gone, in fact, he'd cried himself to sleep the past nights in desperation and grief. But, missing was better than dead.

Losing the boy would destroy Bruce. It already was.

The dead could still be revived, of course, but as E.E Cummings had said, "Unbeing dead isn't the same as being alive."

Lazarus pits brought insanity, and so - he was certain - would any other means to resuscitate the passed on.

He felt the absence of the Wayne heir deeply, deeper than he'd thought possible, and he just wanted the lad safe.

If Dick _wasn't_ in fact with Deathstroke the Terminator (not an encouraging name, he was obliged to admit), then Alfred had cursed the wrong identity to the point where a name of mud was pedestaled.

Bruce had driven himself to the absolute edge. The billionaire was returning to being the Batman he'd been before a certain, life changing trip to the circus. More and more dangerous, any criminals that _**dared**_ interrupt his search for his son ended up in full body casts if they were lucky.

He knew the man blamed himself for his ward's absence, he knew of the papers sitting unsigned in his top left desk drawer. Alfred knew all of his regrets, his hesitations, his feelings, even if he never expressed it to his charge.

He handed a cup of coffee solemnly to a scowling Bruce Wayne. "Any luck, sir?" he asked the man he'd raised as his own son.

"No," Bruce growled to the blinking computer screen. "It's as if he's disappeared off of the face of the Earth."

* * *

Wintergreen was happy for Slade of course, but he couldn't help being concerned.

His employer was filling a void in his life, a void he'd had since Grant's death, which was understandable, healthy even (although his methods _of_ were unhealthy). Gaining a son, a protégé, someone to teach and care for and protect. And of course, to help you in your plans for total world domination. Ambition was a very good thing indeed.

But, his employer was also filling the veins of the child with the same serum that had made Slade a supersoldier in the first place.

Slade was also stuffing the boy's - Grayson? Robin? Richard? Renegade? - head with lies. That part was fine as well, he supposed, especially if it worked against the Justice League, and towards their benefit.

As he watched the pair's interaction on the many computer screens, he couldn't help but hope the apprentice's retribution wouldn't cost as much as Slade's had.

He rather liked the child.

They had successfully diverted the Batmans attention. Perhaps he knew Deathstroke had taken the child, but of course, the child had elected to go with him. He had been given a choice, after all. Watch his friends writhe in agony and die, or join the crusade.

Slade had had only just begun the training, hadn't began the injections yet. That would wait until he had gained the boy's entire trust and loyalty, which, at the rate the conditioning was going, wouldn't be very long.

A few years of training and he might be as talented as Deathstroke himself.

The serum would make him invulnerable, even stronger, essentially an immortal.

A few years wasn't long at all.


	6. The Leader (or lack thereof)

_So like, I'm watching Criminal minds (my fave show, besides Daredevil) and this one episode is about this thing called paternal desire. And it's when a man has an insuppressible urge to be a father, parental instinct practically becoming a pillar in their personality, specifically if they don't - or no longer - have any child of their own, often pushing them to abduct. And I was like :-o this is my exact story._

 _Also, so sorry he doesn't remember as much, but I figured Slade wouldn't have a totally defective drug. There would be definite limits to what Dick remembers, since Deathstroke prob bought it from some really esteemed dealer. Also, the Batman and Robin relationship was what Slade wanted him to forget more than anything._

* * *

 _Five Months Later_

* * *

Grayson leapt across the outstretched rooftops, darting after Deathstroke.

Scratch that, Renegade leapt across the outstretched rooftops, darting after Deathstroke.

Lesson Number One, no names in the field. Well, technically, it'd been the sixth, but they were all burned into his head like a brand, regardless of order.

And, as simple as this hit had been, it still qualified as in the field.

It'd been a simple assassination, one of the Gotham's Supreme Court Justices had been looking into things they shouldn't have, ticking off people who really shouldn't have been ticked off. Ever.

Renegade hadn't even had to do the dirty work. No, Deathstroke had taken care of that, he'd collected information that would be of value later. Hacking was his specialty, as if his awesome fighting skills and dashing good looks weren't more than enough.

Which they totally were.

But he was more than sure that Deathstroke could have gotten the same info on his own. Then again, the man was insanely overprotective for a guy that allowed his thirteen year old son to run around with him assassinating people. Or maybe that was _why_ he was so protective?

But he was pretty sure having to stay within a hundred yard radius was a _little_ overboard.

Not to mention he had a sneaking suspicion that it was because they were in Gotham.

Now, there had been a suspicious gap in his education regarding the big, bad Bat, but he'd heard the rumors from lackeys and allies. Everyone had. As far as Renegade could tell, the man had some sort of grudge against the Dark Knight.

And Deathstroke's grudges were not to be trifled with. They even warranted the use of the phrase: "not to be trifled with". Because, _usually_ , his father holding grudges ended up with the other person dead, but only after having been put through as much pain as possible to inflict. And a _lot_ was possible, he knew firsthand.

Renegade had even asked Wintergreen what his deal was with Batman, but the butler had just laughed at him.

Deathstroke stopped suddenly, still cloaked by the shadows, only visible with his enhanced vision. The man extended his pointer finger, warning him, but against what?

An arm suddenly was in front of him, as if to protect him. Renegade had to fight a scoff. He didn't _need_ protection!

Unfortunately, as soon as he thought that, a strong, rough hand seized his shoulder and spun him around. Renegade drove an elbow into his attacker's gut, adding a spinning kick for good measure. Enhanced strength really was helpful.

 _Especially_ when you were a small thirteen year old in a world of assassins. He listened carefully for the satisfying crunch of bones as his foot connected with ribs.

He wasn't disappointed.

In fact, if anything, he was appointed. The Batman towered over him, huge, dark and the probably the cause of nightmares for the criminal underworld. It was awesome.

 _Was_. The looming effect was kind of ruined when the Batman jerked Renegade's chin upwards and stumbled back, the eyepieces in the cowl widening dramatically.

He used the extreme moment of weakness to his advantage. Renegade snatched the Bat's yellow utility belt, tossing it up in the air, not bothering to watch it sail off the side.

He jabbed upwards in pressure points and approximated vulnerable areas, taking care to make them feel like knives, the way Deathstroke had taught him, but not before the man could get out one word.

" _Robin_?

* * *

However calming static might have been for Superman's clone, it only frayed Wally's nerves further.

The pattern and the sound, scratching and screeching and _sosososo_ slow.

But he should have been used to it. Everything was slow, and he was fast, and he was practically in the future, because if time moved any slower it would be gong backwards and-

Wait.

What if time _was_ going backwards and nobody knew it and-

But the point _was_ , he should have been prepared. If Wally had just put the pieces together a little faster (fast was _supposed_ to be his specialty), then he wouldn't have gotten injured (and knocked unconscious), then he would have been able to help Robin (his very best friend in the whole world), and then Batman wouldn't have gone AWOL from the League (and pretty much the entire universe, minus Gotham and any leads on Robin), and Kaldur wouldn't be trying to quit the Team.

And if the other issues (that he pretty much all caused) weren't so darn depressing, that last thing would be the most terrible.

He expected a lot of things from Aqualad. Guidance, support, calming words, maybe even an electric shock, but betrayal?

Okay, okay, so maybe there had been the whole "let's not tell anybody we have a mole" thing, but that hadn't been betrayal so much as a lie, or just an omission of truth.

He'd known Kaldur'ahm longer than anyone else on the Team, besides Robin, but their youngest member wasn't here right now, and that was a big cause of the problem.

The Atlantean really hadn't wanted to be the leader in the first place, but nobody else was fit for the job besides the Boy Wonder, who was much too young (almost three years between him and the next youngest on the team), leaving only one name in the pool.

Maybe playing leader was too great a role to have pushed on Kaldur's shoulders, but he was tough. Atlanteans had thick skin, right? Then again, Wally couldn't imagine having to lead a team of super teens with enough issues _individually_ to drive a planet full of the best therapists to insanity. Or to blowing up the planet, in an extreme rendition of Krypton's fate. Whichever came first.

But Kaldur had made the _pact_.

What did it matter if the whole Team was falling apart? That meant they needed Kaldur all the more.

Miss M was hysterical at times, or just angry, even angrier than her boyfriend used to be. Conner? He was just. . . blank, only reacting when fighting, or when someone mentioned their MIA comrade. Artemis was even more snappish than usual, but Wally didn't bother arguing with her.

He didn't really bother with anything besides worrying and running and blame and-

Anyway, they needed Kaldur, the cool headed one, the peacemaker, the supposed-to-be-leader.

But Wally wouldn't pretend he hadn't seen him falling apart in the months since Robin's absence. He had taken the loss as hard as any of them, and still had to help them through it, since not even Black Canary could deal with this level of. . . well, Wally wasn't sure what it was.

Grief implied Robin belonged to death, and nobody would accept that. Loss was something you didn't get back, and that was just as bad.

Regardless, he stood in front of the teenager he'd started to think of as an older brother figure, staring him down.

"Wally," Kaldur began softly, even as his expression hardened. "I cannot- I am not fit for this job, or even this Team. My position as leader was always temporary, and I've proven again and again unworthy of even the Team itself.

Wally glared harder.

"It was my fault, please. . . inform the others that the guilt rests on my shoulders alone, and for that, I don't deserve to be here, among you. I am. . .sorry."

He put a careful hand on Wally's shoulders before bringing a fist up to his own forehead and nodding.

 _Recognize: Aqualad B-03_

* * *

"Who the hell is Robin?"

* * *

 _Yay! Kinda starting a arc up in the story, most of this has been the set up. This is kind of like Winter Soldier. . . I even did the "who the hell is Bucky" thing. Yep. I don't own any of it._

 _* **ALSO! Read me! I know where I want to go with this story, but do you want Daddybats to save Robin, or have daddyStroke have him for keeps/just a little while longer? ***_

 _ **Cuz, Robbie won't remember Batman, but I have plot line ideas that could go either way. So basically**_

 _ **. . . DaddyStroke or DaddyBats?**_


	7. The Follower

So. If you hadn't already guessed. Daddy_-_-_ won (okay, not gonna lie, I was totally cheering for you!) but to all of you Daddy_-_-_ers, don't fret! I'll do an alternate ending for you guys. As for the original story, well, I had a concrete case of writers block, since I'd already come up with the last line for this story (it is killer, if I do say so myself), but here it is. BTW, thank you guys all so much for all your feedback! :D

okay, okay, you got me. I'm still not going to reveal who won tho, because... It's more fun this way for me at least. But if you guys REALLY wanna know, check out the reviews(; I think I'm kind of leading some of you on, because this story is not going where it seems to be.

and, you know Nightwings costume from the comics renegade arc? It's based off of that.

i had so much fun writing this chap. . . I don't know why

* * *

Batman couldn't breathe.

It wasn't because of the hard stabs upwards into his gut (that had as much power behind them as some of Bane's blows).

Staring him in the eye, using a defensive technique that Bruce certainly hadn't taught him, was his formerly MIA Robin.

What little of the boy's face the half cowl showed was entirely blank. He clearly didn't know who Bruce was. Robin's previous words hadn't been a ploy, but Bruce tried anyways.

"Robin," he rasped again, praying to every supreme deity and god he could think of. " _Robin_."

Even through the protective fabric of the mask, he could see his protégé's eyebrows draw together curiously, _familiarly_. Robin's left hand crept towards something on his utility belt, and Bruce felt his heart stop for the second time that night.

The uniform was almost entirely black, with an orange 'v' shape gliding down the chest and arms. Sheaths rested on his back, holding katanas. Two grey utility belts hung crisis-crossed on Dick's slim waist. There were three obvious black holsters, all occupied by guns. _Guns_.

His son (what did titles matter anymore?) was using the same weapons that killed his parents. He'd lost what meant the world to him _again_ to a molded hunk of metal.

The boy's hand rested on one of them discreetly. _Robin_ saw him as a threat to be eliminated. Robin saw him as a _threat_ to be eliminated. Robin saw him as a threat to be _eliminated_. There were dozens of ways that it was wrong.

"Now, now, _Renegade_ ," a smooth voice inserted, as a figure stepped out of the shadows. "I'm sure our guest is merely. . . confused."

For the shortest instant, Bruce tore his eyes from his protégé, to glare at the man in front of him.

"Deathstroke!" Batman snarled, eyes flitting between the two.

" _Batman_ ," Deathstroke greeted calmly, lips twitching in amusement. "I see you've met my apprentice; Renegade. If given the opportunity, I think the two of you would get along _splendidly_."

Bruce reached out to seize Robin, but the thirteen year old flipped away, landing in a crouch beside the Mercenary.

"Regrettably, you won't be seeing much of each other."

"What did you _do_ to him?" Batman hissed, stepping forward. Robin wouldn't have gone with Deathstroke voluntarily, not unless something huge was at stake. And, at the very least, Dick should have been able to send a message to him, even if it was just through fighting, but if there was a second meaning to his moves, Bruce hadn't found it.

God, he'd waited months to see his son again, and now Dick wouldn't even let Bruce come near him. This was worse than not knowing where in the world his Robin was.

Deathstroke quirked a white eyebrow. "Nothing at all, Batman," he said, his one good eye narrowing. "Now, if you'll _excuse_ us. Come, Renegade."

The man leapt off the edge, but Robin stayed in his position on the building's ledge. He was staring at Bruce intently, as if waiting for him to make the first move.

"What did he do to you, Dick?"

The white eye lenses narrowed. "That's not my name."

Bruce's pulse pounded in his head as he listened to the boy's voice, almost drowning out the words completely.

His boy leapt off the side of the building, after the assassin, leaving Bruce alone on the rooftop again.

* * *

Truthfully, Kaldur'ahm wanted only to collapse.

Being stopped by one of Atlantis's elder citizens had not been part of his plan. Although, he was no longer the leader, so he supposed that he could deviate from plans as much as he wished.

He held great respect for all citizens of Atlantis, and the elders especially were highly regarded, especially in the ways of sorcery. But they were also extraordinarily resistant to technology, and the life above.

"You," the woman said, crooking a pale finger at him. "Have brought the ways of the upper world here, into our _sanctuary_."

Kaldur frowned. He wore no technology at the moment. "I do not understand-"

"Within your body!" she squawked, gills flapping wildly as she panted. "It is there!"

She placed a bony hand on his shoulder, and moved it in a circular pattern, her fingers glowing a pale blue. "Do you see it now?"

He looked down, no longer seeing the red shirt, or skin, or even the tendons. In his bloodstream, tiny silver probes floated, occasionally blinking red. Kaldur felt his eyes widen as he met the old woman's clouded gaze.

"You have my gratitude," he choked out. "I was unaware of such a- such a thing."

She patted his cheek, not unkindly, but without regard for his newly panicked state. "Of course."

She continued on her way, shazily and slowly, but Kaldur made no effort to help her.

He had to alert his King.

Rest could wait.

* * *

"Will!"

He turned from his task of inspecting the small (in terms of Slade, it was still enough to outfit a small nations military) armory, to see a black and orange blur hurtling towards him.

"Grant," he greeted the boy beside him, genuinely pleased to see him. Slade only ever referred to him as Wintergreen anymore, and the _original_ Grant had taken after his father, but with _double_ the insolence.

Of all his charges, he had to admit he preferred Grayson, and he'd taken on a grandfatherly role to the child.

"The mission?" Wintergreen questioned automatically.

The boy waved his hand flippantly. "A success." Will heard the unspoken ' _as usual_ '.

"But I assume something happened?"

Grayson grinned. "Yes!" He stuck out his pointer fingers, putting them straight up on either side of his head and twitching them.

"Did you run into that pink haired girl, Jinx again?"

"No!" Grayson blushed, eyes widening emphatically. "It was the _Batman_!"

Wintergreen froze. "Did you now?" he asked slowly. What was Slade planning to do?

"He didn't seem as threatening as all the goons make him out to be. I mean- sure he's _gigantic_ , but he just seemed. . . kind of sad."

The boy leaned against the wall, looking at him analytically, even as he chattered on, having picked up on his uncharacteristic hesitation.

"And he kept calling me Robin," Grayson said gaugingly, large blue eyes calculating. "Don't know what _that_ was all about. And _then_ , he called me a Dick. _Me_! We'd known each other less than five minutes, and I don't think you can make that judgement already."

"How rude," Wintergreen couldn't help chuckling, even as the direness of the situation sunk in. "Perhaps next time you can call him a 'meanie-head'."

Grayson laughed. "You're really pushing this swear jar thing, aren't you?"

A smooth voice cut through their conversation, "Luckily, you won't need a comeback, because there _won't_ be a 'next time'."

Slade stood against the doorway, face blank. Grayson rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Pops! He's your arch nemesis! You'll need backup."

"No."

"Please?"

"No. I'd prefer no _backup_ against the Batman, to no _son_."


	8. The Effort

Hey, who wants to join the IDNO club? It's the 'I Do Not Own'. Okay, also Grayson Wilson sounds weird, so think of him as Grant Wilson in full name.

* * *

The Batman was proving to be an unforeseen issue.

Of course, Slade had _known_ that the man would do anything to get his - former - protégé back. But Slade wasn't sure why he hadn't. The shock value of the person he cared about most, turned against him? Well, he definitely knew that feeling, but it hasn't been enough for him to freeze, and let them go

He was extraordinarily glad that he hadn't, of course. He'd grown more attached to Grayson than he'd ever expected. If the boy got taken (albeit, again) he would slaughter the entire Justice League to retrieve him, without another thought.

As Wintergreen had said, the Batman was searching for Robin, now that he'd been given proof he was alive, even harder.

The Dark Knight wouldn't find much, obviously, and he'd been searching relentlessly for the past five months anyway. There was nothing new for him to discover.

But, on the other Kevlar plated glove, he now knew that Deathstroke had taken him. The Bat would track down his safe houses and investigate every detail.

He wouldn't find this one, in any case. Not unless Batman (who he knew to be Bruce Wayne, thanks to an unknowing Grayson) puzzled out his secret identity, which was almost entirely impossible.

"Grayson," he called suddenly, needing confirmation for himself that the boy was still. . . here at the very least. Alive wasn't an issue, now that he'd started the serum injections. Unfortunately, with an acrobat, being at any given place at any given time, _was_.

"Yeah, pops?"

Slade whirled around, coming eye to eye with Grayson. The boy had grown over the last few months, but he certainly wasn't tall enough to be even face to face with him. In fact, the boy was just getting to average height for someone his age.

He raised an eyebrow as he saw the upside down face. He looked up, not feeling very surprised as he realized that the boy was hanging.

Grayson saw his eyes move and grinned.

"What do you need?" The thirteen year old had picked up a slight northern accent from all the time in the city, not am obvious one, but enough of a twang to make Slade want to smile. He didn't, obviously.

He hadn't actually thought of a good reason for calling his son (because that's what he was now, not a Wayne, or a Grayson - not in last name, anyway -, but a Wilson).

And he'd been waiting to show something to the boy, but had put it off, for the sake of emotions, or maintaining a lack thereof.

"Come with me."

* * *

Bruce had rewatched the video on the rooftop 436 times.

He was in no means getting tired of it. If nothing else, it meant his boy was alive, and Batman hadn't been sure that the experience was real. But he was alive. Alive, and with a (as Robin _would_ have referred to him) 'a evil genius master mind'.

But every time he watched their final conversation, he felt fear course through him. What if he never got Robin back? It had been the worst five months he'd ever experienced, but to live a whole lifetime without his Robin would be a worse torture than anything the League of Shadows could give.

"Is that it, sir?"

Bruce strained every muscle he had, to keep from jumping. He hadn't realized how out of it seeing his protege had made him. "Yes."

"Would. . . Would you mind terribly if I watched it? I'd like to assure myself that he is-" his surrogate father broke off, English accent growing thicker and thicker by the second.

Accent. That was idiosyncratic. Dick, despite all his years in Gotham, had never picked up an accent. But on the rooftop. . .

"Yes, Alfred," he said instantly, standing up from his chair, wide-eyed. Alfred raised an eyebrow, but Bruce only shook his head in response. He replayed the video, but Bruce only looked - more specifically, listened - for nine words. The only nine words 'Renegade' had spoken that night.

 _"Who the hell is Robin?"_

 _"That's not my name."_

Hecould almost feel Alfred shudder as he watched Dick for the first time in almost half a year. Almost. He'd gotten too absorbed into the words. His therory had been right.

The boy had picked up a Canadian accent. He hadn't noticed at the time, because of all the. . . distractions, such as the child he'd raised as his own ( _was_ his own) fighting him, and not knowing who he was.

He quickly closed the video, preparing to make good on finding his boy when Alfred spoke.

"From your unbridled excitement, am I wrong to assume you've found a lead?"

Bruce nodded, hestimating slightly, before turning around and placing a hand on the butler's shoulder. "Thank you," he said finally. _For everything._

He stood like that for a beat too long. The older man's blue eyes narrowed, managing to look both amused and solemn. "What are you waiting for? There's a child to be found! Chop, chop, Master Bruce!"

Dick had already been with Deathstroke much too long. Had been away from _Bruce_ much too long.

And, he supposed, the 437th time was the charm.

* * *

"And you are sure?" Red Tornado asked blandly.

"Yes, Red Tornado. I am certain," Kaldur nodded. He would not be here, if he were not. "My King decided that-"

"What is _he_ doing here?"

Superboy barreled into the main room, the remnants of the team trailing behind. Artemis had her arms crossed as she glared at him. M'gann's hands were clenched tightly at her sides, and her eyes were narrowed to slits. Superboy had already left huge craters form where he stepped.

He did not see Kid Flash anywhere-

"Dude! You came back! I knew you would! I knew it!" Arms were flung around him, and somehow Kaldur felt himself being picked up.

Wally grinned at him as he put Kaldur down, and Kaldur smiled weakly back, before slowly turning to the team, dreading what he would tell them. "I come bearing ill news-"

"I don't care," Conner interrupted bluntly. "You're a traitor, and you abandoned us when we were down a member-"

"And perhaps we wouldn't have been down a member if it weren't for you," Kaldur regretted his words instantly as Superboy stumbled back, guilt overtaking his features. But Artemis stepped forward, no longer glaring, a smirk overtaking her hardened features.

" _I'm_ listening," she announced, nodding at him.

Conner looked around, appearing shocked, as the guilt on his face slowly turned to anger. M'gann put a hand on his shoulder, and took over the archer's job of glaring. "You can't just come back here and- and expect us to-" the Martian stumbled over her words as Kaldur extended a hand.

 _I am sorry_ , he thought, hoping she was reading his mind for once.

Her expression softened entirely.

"I am sorry," he repeated, out loud this time.

"But there is something _much_ more dire at play."

* * *

Review. Like seriously, just type in a smiley face and hit submit. Pretty Please?


	9. The Strain

_I checked my email, just to do it, and I see the most amazing review from Flyingsquirrels that says "Spt get your butt back to updating!" And then I burst out laughing because it was so perfect! Everyone looked at me like I was crazy but it was just so funny!._

 _Anyways, this chap is dedicated to_ **Flyingsquirrels** _because they made me get off my lazy butt and back to updating, lol. And thanks to everyone else who reviewed! They're so fun to read, and I base a lot of the story off of your analysises (is that how it's spelled? Analysi?) so really you guys write more of it than me!:)_

 _and if I ever take too long to post or something, all you've gotta do is tell me. I didn't realize itd been almost a month, and you guys this story has over a 110 follows!_

 **Keep in mind I'm doing an alternate ending**

* * *

"He wasn't even _vaguely_ disturbed, Will!"

Wintergreen smiled. Slade's elation had already been obvious, no matter much he'd tried to hide it behind a stoic demeanor, and calling him Will was something that the younger man hadn't done in _years_. "Did you _want_ him to be?"

" _No_ ," his employer denied, lips twitching downward at the thought. "Of course not, but I'd thought seeing an empty eye socket might have unnerved him, at the least."

Slade's missing eye had always been something of a _sensitive_ subject, never mentioned, only silently acknowledged and dutifully avoided in conversation, so Will sulpposed his taking off the eyepatch had been a significant milestone. "Why did you show him that anyways?"

Slade shrugged casually. "He needed to see that even the slightest miscalculations and misjudgments can be. . . _costly_."

"Oh? Like stealing a boy from his mentor and friends without heed for the Justice League's fury?" Will teased. The Justice League had done next to nothing to take the teen back, and the Batman had no leads. They were too soft to do anything but cause millions of dollars in damages fighting _plants_.

"The League will have _my_ fury to deal with if they try to reclaim him," Slade scoffed. "And I don't operate by their petty mantra of _no killing._ "

* * *

Grayson stumbled back from the door.

' _Like stealing a boy from his mentor and friends-?'_

 _'Reclaim him_?'

That didn't make any sense. He didn't remember any other mentor _but_ Slade. As for friends, there was the Hive Five and the younger members of the Light*, but most of his time was spent training or on missions.

Maybe Grayson was taking it out of context, maybe. . .

There _had_ to be an explanation for all of this. But then, it wasn't something he could just work casually into mealtime conversation.

" _Hey, Dad, did you kidnap me?"_

 _"Sure thing, sport! Pass the salt please."_

He shuddered at the thought. That had been a _weird_ picture to have in his head. It sounded more and more ridiculous the longer he thought about it.

Slade wouldn't have kidnapped him!

 _But_ , a small voice in his head - that he'd named Tim - and was generally his sense of logic, chimed, _your memories._

He'd already felt at home in the mansion, and how else would he know fighting styles and acrobatics if he hadn't been the apprentice from a mercenary?

It wasn't like Grayson could have picked up his moves from some karate class. And the explanation he'd been given _did_ make sense.

Maybe Deathstroke was recruiting? That made even less sense because Grayson was _very_ good at what they did.

He trusted him. Slade had even taken off the eyepatch, so if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that he'd always be told the truth, no matter how grueling it was. His father would never lie to him.

Tim scoffed quietly. _What if he already has?_

* * *

Bruce gripped the steering wheel of the Bat-Mobile until it threatened to crack underneath his fingers.

He remembered a time when this car had been his 'baby', practically his own child.

He remembered a time when Gotham had been his ruler, behind his every action.

He remembered a time when the mission had been the most important thing in his life.

The car swerved dangerously.

" _Sir_?" Alfred's concerned voice crackled through the radio. " _Are you all right? I've been tracking the car's movements and they appear quite errati-"_

"I'm _fine_ , Penny-One," Bruce interrupted sharply. He wondered if Dick was fine, off with Deathstroke.

The connection to the older man broke off, leaving Bruce alone again in the silence.

If Robin had been there, he would have chattered on and on about the Team or a new aerial move he'd perfected or how he 'was _totally_ going to ask Jenny to go the dance*' but still needed 'the ultimate pickup line' to which Bruce would grunt or rasp out an 'aren't you too young for that sort of thing?'

Patrol had been dead quiet, the Manor had lacked any sort of movement at all, and they only live things in the Batcave had seemed to be the bats.

 _Somewhere_ in the five short years, Dick had become his 'baby', his own child, _somewhere_ Dick's needs had become the cause for his every action, _somewhere_ in that time, Dick had become the most important thing in his life.

It had taken him five _excruciating_ months without the boy to realize it.

He glanced over to the empty seat next to him, his slow pulse thumping loudly.

Bruce flipped on the radio. It had only been built to listen to the police and government stations, but Dick had 'upgraded' it to pick up other channels.

A slow smile worked its way onto his face as a song belonging to 'The Bat-Playlist' began.

Smooth jazz wasn't any kind of alternative to the voice his son, but it was the best he could do as he sped though the night, towards Canada.

* * *

It had taken Grayson three and a half days to come up with a plan elaborate enough, excuses viable enough, and an idea. . .well, just an _idea_ so that he could sneak out of the mansion.

It had taken longer than he'd thought to bypass the many, many, _many_ security measures his dad had taken to ensure that this never happened.

 _Whoops_.

He didn't really think a ' _sorry, Daddy_ ,' would cut it this time.

Maye he could play it off as Teenage Rebellion?

So there he was, in some small Canadian city's library, at least a few hundred miles away from Montreal.

He'd yanked his teal hood up right before he'd walked in, but he seriously doubted Smallville here - he had no idea what or even where in the world Smallville was, but it made sense somehow - would have any operational video cameras.

Still, there could be eyewitnesses- but he supposed a turquoise hood was a little more suspicious than his face.

Grayson cracked his knuckles over the dinosaur of a computer's yellow keyboard.

He paused for a moment, wondering what exactly he was going to search on. He had access - or could easily hack and _gain_ access - to some of the most detailed, most encrypted, most vital information and files in the world, A.R.G.U.S, Cadmus, Star Labs, Slade's personal files, _anything_.

"Okay, Google, " he said finally. "Search 'Batman'."


	10. The Steps

_So, like I know precisely what you're thinking. 'Whoa, SPT you're like totally like updating and it hasn't even been like a whole entire millenium yet.'  
_

 _Guilty as charged, and I know you guys probably don't sound like that but my conscience (and the voice inside my head teehee) is a valley girl soooo...that's what_ everything _sounds like to me!_

 _Anyways, the reason for this update is **DoctorMatts** review. You. Are. A. Flipping. GENIUS, SIR! That is happening! That is what I am going to do now, and the DaddyStroke DaddyBats things will have to be alternate endings because your suggestion was so perfect. I can't- i don't even know how to express my gratitude for that amazing. . . THING/PLOT/IDEA/PERFECTION. Just- thank you SO much!_

* * *

"That's. . ." Wally trailed off.

"Terrible," Kaldur filled in, frowning. "I am _aware_."

He looked down guiltily.

"Oh, _yeah_ , that too," Wally said, because _yes_ , it was kind of horrifying to find out that they had little, nanoscopic probes inside of them, but mostly it was- "But I was going for amazing! Can you imagine what must have been needed to actually insert them? Maybe they did it with a beam or- ow!"

Artemis smacked the back of his head. "I don't care how they got _in_ ," the archer growled. "How do we get them _out_?"

"That is. . . a work in progress," Kaldur took a deep breath. "And I'm afraid our tech expert is not here to assist us.

Everyone winced. "Too soon, man," Wally offered awkwardly, because _yeah, Kal, he'd noticed, _but _someone_ needed to ease the tension, because it was thick enough that even Uncle Barry would have had a hard time vibrating through it.

M'gann slowly broke the silence. "Can the probes _hurt_ us? What do they do?"

"We are awaiting a full body scan but we can easily presume their purpose was indeed to harm," Kaldur furrowed his eyebrows, and Wally had to admit that he didn't look all that leaderly. He looked tired and young and guilty and just as scared as the rest of them, for once. He put a hand on the Atlantean's shoulder.

"We'll figure this out," he declared, "We've got to."

 _Just like you figured out where Robin was_?

If he could have glared at himself, he would've. _Traitor_ , he thought back.

Green Cheeks was looking at him concernedly. She touched his shoulder carefully.

'Are you all right?' M'gann asked through the mind link. 'You were. . . _thinking_ very loudly.'

Wally flashed a grin at her. 'Never been better, Meg-a-licious.'

"I think," Conner began slowly, "that it's time to call in the Justice League."

* * *

' _Ward of Bruce Wayne Missing_ '

' _Does Gotham Need a "Bird Symbol"?'_

 _'No Leads in Search for Richard Wayne'_

' _Riddler Claims Credit for Boy Wonder's Disappearance '_

 _'Grayson Case Gone Cold'_

 _'Did Killer Croc eat Batman's Sidekick?'_

 _'Heir to Wayne Fortune Presumed Dead '_

 _'Robin Imitators Line Streets in Protest'_

Both of them went missing at the same time, possessed small statures, black hair, extremely similar features, were roughly the same age, and could claim unmatched gymnastic and acrobatic abilities.

And, _conveniently_ , Robin and Richard vanished at the same time he woke up, without a memory in the world besides his 'name' and birthday.

He should have known no one named their _son_ Gray _son_ Wil _son._

Grayson - if that was even his name, which, according to his research and well-founded suspicions, it _wasn't_ \- thought back to the Batman, who'd called him Robin.

The identities of the Dynamic Duo had been suspiciously easy to puzzle out, even if he'd only just found out that it was a duo five minutes ago.

He glared at the white computer screen that adorned in rainbow letters, the name of his new favorite search engine.

Who _was_ he?

Apparently, he wasn't a Wilson. Apparently, he _was_ a Grayson. Or, _the_ Grayson, if the reports about the traumatizing circus incident that _he didn't remember_ were anything to go by. Apparently, he was Robin.

He _knew_ he'd been Renegade, but was anything else he'd done the last five months real?

He wasn't even sure how to refer to himself anymore. Grayson? Grant? Renegade? Richard? Dick? Robin?

His time with Slade and Wintergreen still felt like it was with family, but if what he understood was true, it was more Stockholm Syndrome than anything else.

But it was the only family he'd ever known.

 _Correction_ , a chipper little voice in his head chirped, _it's the only family you_ remember.

This felt like an extreme case of identity theft.

Reportedly, Batman's mantra was entirely against killing, but as the apprentice to a mercenary. . .

He didn't think he was who he'd been before either. If Batman and the Justice League (he _still_ thought that was a terrible name) did find him, would they like what they saw?

Had they looked for him at _all_?

Gray- _whatever_ his name was, couldn't help feeling the tiniest bit - selfishly - hurt. Wasn't Batman supposed to be the World's Greatest Detective?

And maybe more importantly, now knowing - or accurately theorizing, he supposed - that his supposed father was actually his kidnapper, how could he go back to Slade willingly?

He'd been a hero, and Deathstroke had turned him into a killer. He wasn't sure of _what_ he was anymore than _who_.

He needed closure. He needed to know. He needed answers.

Next time he searched for Batman, he _wouldn't_ use Google.

* * *

"Grant?" Slade knocked on the closed door. It was really only out of show that he was knocking, they both knew it would be no matter at all for him to get through it.

No answer.

He tensed immediately, barging through the locked door.

It was empty. The door was locked, the bed was made, every piece of furniture was still entirely intact.

The window wasn't made to break or even move, and it remained closed.

His son had escaped. Somehow, he was sure that the _why_ was more important than the _how_. This boy would not get away from him.

Slade would _not_ lose another child.


	11. The Long Way Home

_A couple reviewers really nicely pointed out my huge error that people in Montreal don't speak with northern, Canadian accents because they're french. Whoops! Thank you guys loads for telling me! So imagine that like ummmm slade + will had northern accents because...im not sure, they just had northern accents. That's where Grayson picked it up ;)_

 _also **Doctor Matt** you are like legitimately my favorite person. OMG YES. THAT IS SO HAPPENING. Also the amazing amazing person who said the "around" thing: oh heck YEEEEES. If you guys have got plot ideas, you should totally share them with me! I'd love to add even more twists and turns. _

_don't own please don't sue_

* * *

"Where _is_ he?" Batman snarled into older man's ear. Despite the finely pressed suit that he wore, he possessed a muscular stature, and, if his movements were anything to go by, an intense military history. But Bruce couldn't bring himself to care.

He was so _close_!

" _Where_?!"

The man stared at him wit's practiced blankness. "Where is _whom_?"

"You _know_ who!" He threw the man into the wall, feeling vaguely satisfied at the sound of bones breaking, but mostly enraged. He marched over to him, lifting him up by the throat and pinning him to the cement barrier.

Bruce leaned even farther in so that he was breathing on the man's left temple. "I'll make you wish you'd never been _born!_ "

"Why would you do _that_ , when I don't even know who you're talking about?" The old man's dangerous smirk said otherwise.

"You know who I'm talking about, you son of a-"

" _Tsk, Tsk_ , Batman, such _foul_ language. Intelligent people have better ways to express themselves, as you know. Or, I suppose, you wouldn't."

Batman whipped around instantly, sending a savage kick to the old man's head to debilitate him. " _Deathstroke_."

* * *

He really wasn't sure who to trust.

The last person he'd trusted had been an assassin that had apparently kidnapped him, and pretended to be his father while teaching him to kill.

Everyone in his (known, who knew what he'd has as 'Robin') social circles was either a villain or a goon.

Renegade - he'd settled on calling himself that, it was the only thing he knew he'd truly been - wasn't sure he wanted to be a villain anymore.

No, he _knew_ that he didn't want to be a villain anymore, he just didn't know what he _did_ want to be.

Career options seemed pretty limited at the moment, and he couldn't really blame the economy. He'd been washed up at thirteen.

It was almost entirely good-guys vs. bad-guys, with almost no third party players in either League.

There _had_ to be a safe medium.

On the other hand, he knew everything about the - _ahem_ \- other side (killing just seemed much more efficient than shoving them into prison, only for them to bust out in a week) and he was kind of oblivious to the Justice League's mantras.

Slade had shielded him from learning about other viewpoints, but he wasn't sure he could step out of the bias he'd been 'raised in'. As much as he detested the idea that his relationship with the man was Stockholm Syndrome, it was hard to think of anyone else as his dad.

But who better to learn about 'Truth, Justice, and the American Way' from than the Man of Steel himself?

He vaguely wondered who Canada's Superman was.

* * *

Clark, for all his years working with the Batman, had yet to gain an immunity to being snuck up on.

His apartment was dark - it always was, with x-Ray vision, lamps seem kind of pointless - but no windows or doors had been left open, which left him almost no cause to be alarmed.

Clark grabbed a tub of ice cream out of the freezer, securing a spoon between his teeth and effectively breaking it. He sighed into his ' _Superman Flavor_ '. He'd really wanted to know what he tasted like, too.

"What does it mean?"

Clark whirled around to face the intruder.

"Dick!" He cried. It was most definitely _him_ , the dim glow of the refrigerator highlighting the boy's striking features. He wasn't wearing Civvies that Clark had ever seen before, or even his Robin costume, but he surged forward anyways to wrap his pseudo-nephew in a hug.

Dick didn't return it.

"You're alive! You're all right!"

Dick didn't respond.

He pulled away, still gripping the boy by his shoulders. He looked entirely intact, but his face didn't have it's usual smirk on it. He looked. . . confused.

" _Are_ you all right?" Clark asked concernedly.

The boy nodded mutely, big blue eyes stil staring up at him suspiciously. Somehow, Dick didn't look as innocent.

"Have you told B-"

"What does it _mean_?" Dick interrupted suddenly, and their was no fondness in his voice. It was as though Dick was talking to a stranger.

"What does what mean?" A million thoughts rushed through his head at Barry-Allen-speed. Where had Dick been for the past five months? Why hadn't he contacted them? Did Bruce know?

The first thing Dick would have done would have been to see Bruce, certainly not Clark. It was a reasonable deduction- maybe Bruce had grown stifling in his overprotectiveness and paranoia (he seriously doubted that the man would ever let Dick out of the house after this incident) and he'd needed an escape.

"Your _code_ ," the boy clarified shortly, leaning tensely against the countertop. Clark couldn't help but notice that he hadn't said 'our code'. "Why do you follow it? What's so important about it?"

Clark felt himself freeze. He was asking as if he genuinely didn't know.

"Let me tell you a story," he said kindly, patting his lap so Dick could sit in it like Clark was Santa Claus. The boy didn't oblige, but he gave a small smirk. "Back on Krypton, before I was born, there were these two heroes, one called Flamebird, and another only known as Nightwing. . . "


	12. The Plan

**Erm warning, there's a creepy dude in the last part. . . Being creepy. Also this chap is pretty violent. Um yeah. But all Dick knows how to do is kill soooo**

* * *

". . . but no one ever saw them again," Clark finished, recalling the abrupt ending of the story.

Dick's piercing blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "But if you had to _guess_ what happened to them-"

"I'd like to think they lived out the rest of their days in peace," he filled in. Clark wondered if he would ever have the opportunity to settle down with Lois, or if his Super-Heroing would prevent him from ever making a move. "But most Kryptonians assumed that they'd died."

The boy raised an eyebrow at him. "This ' _Nightwing'_ was your inspiration, yes?"

"To be a hero," Clark said slowly, "but I can't say I agree with his methods. Killing isn't for us to decide, it's-"

"Thank you," Dick cut in, standing up. He hesitated for a beat. "Uncle Clark."

Clark smiled, the last time Dick had called him that was nearly a year ago. He clapped a hand on the thirteen year old's shoulders, smiling down at him. "Anytime. I'm just glad you're not dead. You had us all very worried for you."

Dick looked up at him, unemotional and calculating, like he didn't know who in the world Clark was referring to. His emotion - or uncharacteristic _lack thereof_ \- was making him concerned.

Clark stood up from his chair, closing his eyes briefly as he stretched. "What _did_ happen to y-"

When he opened his eyes, the room was empty.

Dick was gone.

* * *

"Batman," Deathstroke forced himself to greet casually. He mimicked an idiotic civilian. "' _How the heck are you_?'"

This man had taken his son away from him. There was no other explanation. _How_ **dare** _the Batman take away_ **his** _boy_?

He would _maul_ him, he would _mutilate_ him until there was _nothing_ left-

" _Where. Is. He!?_ " Batman snarled, as if he hadn't stolen him back.

"You tell me, _Detective_ ," he mocked in false calm, _easily_ pinning the man to the wall by the throat.

Grayson - _Grant_ \- couldn't remember, couldn't _possibly,_ the drug was _permanent_ , there was no way to ever retrieve the memories. But he would never go willingly with the Batman, he'd been trained better than that.

The Caped Crusader gripped his arms tightly, and he looked. . . _desperate_. Slade could've related if he didn't want to kill him so badly. "In fact, 'Brucie', _do_ tell me."

Wayne didn't even bother to deny his secret identity. He struggled in such a way that if Slade had been a lesser man (or perhaps an unenhanced one), his arms would have snapped. " _Where_?!"

He slammed the man's head against the wall. "I'm growing tired of this game, Wayne. It would be in your best _interest_ to tell me where my son is-"

The lenses in the cowl widened, and Slade found himself being pushed back somehow. "He is _not_ your son _!"_

Even more rage filled Slade. This pathetic vigilante was so blind that he considered himself a father! He'd ignored his 'child' and left him starved for affection or even praise at every turn. "I'll ask you one, final time."

"You son of a-" Batman threw a punch at him, and Deathstroke caught it in his palm.

"Where-"

"You're a monster!"

"Is-"

"He's not an object!"

"My son-"

Batman finally snapped, knocking his forehead against Slade's skull, sending both of them stumbling back. "I'll kill you!"

Slade spat out blood from his mouth, mind alternating currents between thoughts of _Grayson, Grant, where is he? He took him, where is he?_ and _the Dark Knight is threatening to break his code? He truly_ doesn't _know where Grant is. . ._

An interesting development to say the least.

* * *

He crept out of Metropolis silently.

He didn't like the city, too clean, too perfect. Superman, with his x-ray vision saw something below it's surface, but Grayson couldn't see anything needing saving (besides the catastrophe-magnet named Lois Lane).

Regardless, he'd gotten some new information that he was sure would prove invaluable.

He was somewhere in New Jersey at the moment, hopping motorcycles every few cities, but he still wasn't sure why or where he was going.

He was having a mid life crisis before his voice had cracked.

Grayson swerved into an alley, because - whoops! - he'd _kind of_ forgotten to get gas. He'd had other things on his mind.

He made it into the alley just as the engine gave its last huff.

"Hey kid."

He spun around. _Stupid_ , he'd been _stupid_! Grayson hadn't even checked if it was occupied before stranding himself in one of the dingiest streets in one of the dingiest cities he'd ever seen.

"You got a wallet on you?"

Heavy New England accent, at least a foot taller than him, around seventy pounds heavier, and a gun.

This guy was _clearly_ outmatched.

Not to mention that he didn't have a wallet. Or any ID. _Whatever_ , he thought, _secret identities are a hassle anyways._ "Nope."

"That's okay, pretty boy, I take . . . _other_ types of payment."

"You take credit?" He asked hopefully.

"Not quite," the Sleaze leered. "More like- _uff_!"

He ripped the gun out of the man's hand, punching him in the gut.

Grayson also sent a warning shot.

Into the man's foot.

The dude - who he'd dubbed 'Hammie' - curled into a ball on, clutching his foot. "Who-" 'Hammie' sobbed, "who the hell _are_ you?"

Grayson thought for a minute. Renegade, Robin, Richard. Then there were all the aliases he'd used with Slade for undercover work. He had dozens to use, but somehow, only one felt _right_.

"Call me Nightwing," he decided on a whim. "Spread the word. This is _my_ city from now on."


	13. The Story

_*I used this to kind of emphasize his similarities to Slade_

 _in this story he's gonna be an ANTIHEROOOOOOOOOOO_

 _ooh, ooh, ooh, and_ _ **Nightwriter222**_ _pleeeeeease update Pupil soon! Love it, you guys should check it out, it's another apprentice fic and it's way better than this one :)_

 _ **ChibiRealm** , you are an absolute genius! I'm totally doing that! I've *sniffles dramatically* started really liking Wintergreen._

 _Also, **Doctor Matt,** I'm pursuing your CA:TWS suggestion be uses It was too good to pass up!_

* * *

Alfred had never been one to act on spur of the moment decisions.

His reflexes were honed to perfection and he was adaptable, _of course_ , but he preferred thinking through all options before choosing a course of action.

But the situation had long since stopped calling for intellectual discussions, and it had _always_ been a matter of heart.

He collected his mask quickly, stepping back into his old persona as if he'd never left.

It was time for Alfred to take matters into his own hands.

* * *

Grayson had had his identity for exactly two hours and thirty-eight minutes when he met the man.

He was tall and thin and _old_ , probably in his late fifties or so, but he moved smoothly, and if he was right (which of course, Grayson was) had a military background. There was a black domino mask obscuring his eyes. "Hello, young sir."

 _British, detached, usage of formal titles, unemotional_ , a small part of his brain informed him, but he wasn't really listening.

Grayson felt himself freeze. His immiediate thought was _Wintergreen_ , but he thought farther back than even that. When he'd first woken up, he'd said a name. Edward. . . Albert. . . Alfred?

 _Alfred_ , his mind snapped immediately, and he felt it go into red alert, _Alfred_! His head buzzed frantically, but for all his memorization of the files, he couldn't pin more than a name and a grandfatherly manner to the figure.

He elected not to let the man - _Alfred_ \- know he had an advantage.

"Who are you?" He asked slowly and cautiously, making sure the man believed himself to be in control of the cards.

But for some reason, Alfred merely smiled. "You may call me. . . Agent A, 'Nightwing'."

Word had spread fast.

"How do you know my name?"

"Word spreads fast," the man - gentleman, really, there wasn't another way to describe his manner - replied, in an echo of his own thoughts.

 _Damn_.* It was as if this man knew him better then he knew himself.

Agent A seemed to sense his feelings, because he sent a warm smile at Grayson. It faded before he spoke again. "And. . . I am a good friend of your father's."

"Which one?" Grayson couldn't stop a bitter laugh from bubbling out when he spoke.

Alfred paused for a moment. "I daresay you've had many."

Grayson looked up earnestly at the man. It was like he _knew_ him. There was trust there, but the last person he'd trusted was Slade, and that had only transformed him into a killer.

He wasn't even sure which father he'd meant. There was his biological one, John Frederick Grayson ( _apparently_ , he had no recollection of anyone before Slade of course) and the there was his legal guardian Bruce Wayne, and. . . Slade. He wasn't sure what he thought of the man as anymore.

Nonetheless. . .

"You're a butler," he blurted out suddenly.

Alfred's smile widened. "You do remember."

Grayson said nothing.

"Your method of silence is strategical," Agent A continued, speaking casually as if he hadn't just analyzed Grayson's supposedly unanalyzable (or would it just be _lyzable_?) body language, "but it prevents you from getting any new information, and what little you do learn is only what your target _wants_ you to know."

"So what do you want?" Grayson asked finally, after a long beat of silence.

"That's simple," Agent A disclosed casually. "I would like you to come with me."

* * *

Roy was not a big fan of the team's idea.

Then again, he rarely was.

But if it meant getting back Robin (who, besides Kal, was the only one he could actually stand), he would deal with it. The brat that was kind of, sort of, his almost little brother would be almost fourteen now.

"I'll do it," he agreed, "but I have a question."

There was an immediate reaction. The teens' shoulders all slumped in relief simulataneously. "You have our gratitude," Kaldur said finally, Aftera long, and, onRoys part, uncomfortable silence. "What is your question?"

"Why isn't the League helping?"

Superboy scowled in response.

"Try not to pop a blood vessel there, kid," Roy said, because there was a vein bulging in his forehead that looked ready to _blow_. "But, I mean, isn't Rob like, their collective pseudo-godchild?"

Superboy's frown deepened, but it looked like he was making an _effort_ to uncoil his muscles. "I - "

"That still a sore subject? My advice? Stop caring what the hell he thinks of you," Roy interrupted, turning back to his best friend to get an actual answer to his question besides _hero-with-daddy-issues-number-1,679_ 's easy to read body language.

The Atlantean smirked slightly for an instant, before his expression regained its somber quality. "We have found it difficult not only to contact Batman, but also Superman and a large portion of the League."

He felt his eyes narrow. "So _conveniently_ , the majority of the Earth's superheroes have their cellphones in silent all at the same time? I skipped Detective 101, but that sound suspicious."

Kaldur's smile returned full force. "My thoughts exactly."

* * *

Wintergreen rose to his feet unsteadily, bloody head throbbing as he tried to keep up both his composure, and at bay the idea fighting his better sense.

"Slade," he warned the younger man gently, watching him roughhouse the Batman. "He doesn't know."

The mercenary tsked, sending another punch at the now unconciosus form of Gotham's Dark Knight, who slumped bonelessly against the wall. Slade whirled around, throwing his metal mask onto the ground,

"Then why is he here?" Slade demanded. "If he _cares_ so much, why didn't he look before? 'World's Greatest Detective' and he can't even find-" he exhaled slowly, reining in his temper, "he _knows_ where Grant is. And I won't let these petty, so called ' _heroes_ ' ruin everything Grant's worked for, everything _we've_ worked for!"

 _And what exactly was that? What empire was he so intent on building with Grayson_? Wintergreen wanted to ask, but instead he said, "Grayson's trackers."

Slade slammed a fist into the wall, entirely demolishing it. "Deactivated," he growled as rubble poured over his shoulders.

"Slade!" Will scolded. "Surely you were more clever in hiding them than just slipping it into clothes."

"I did!" Slade exclaimed, eyes flaring dangerously. "There were non-lethal, unharmful, probes injected in his bloodstream, purely for us to be able to track him! He didn't even know they existed! I did it before he regained conciousness. They aren't activating!"

"We have no idea where he is," Will summarized darkly, at the realization that the boy he'd considered a grandson was entirely gone, and quite possibly never coming back.

Slade turned back around, expression contorted in an ods combination of melancholy and rage. "Or what else he's capable of," the man paused briefly, before a smirk sparked onto his face. "That's my boy."


	14. The Mountain

_I dont own. I'm so sorry for this, you're gonna die, this is like, graphic violence cause, you know BATMAN AND SLADE. They're a warning in themselves. and i know people were really rooting for Alfred, but I had this idea -_

* * *

"Why?"

Alfred's heart gave yet another wrench. A part of him had been holding onto the hope that Dick was perfectly alright, had memories intact and was simply being extorted.

"That _is_ the question, isn't it?" He replied ambiguously, deciding to ploy for humor. "Autonomy, survival, even _I_ don't know -" he stopped short as the boy stumbled backwards, looking shattered.

"You're - you're just like _him_!" Dick hissed, eyes glinting from underneath his blue hood. The boy back pedaled rapidly, until his heels hit the mortar of the rooftop's side.

"My boy," Alfred said with a false calm, reaching out a hand. "I -"

" _Get away from me_! All of you psychos! Just - just leave me alone!" Dick cried, looking frantically behind him just before he leapt off the edge of the building.

"Richard!" Alfred exclaimed.

He'd made some sort of mistake, something that reminded the lad of Slade, but Alfred hadn't the slightest idea what. All he knew, was that man had done something to damage his grandson, worse than the thirteen year old had ever been damaged before.

* * *

Slade glared at the man in front of him.

Wayne had no way to escape. He was strapped to the chair with chains, zip ties, duct tape, and a special rope of Slade's own design. "I already know that you're awake, Batman."

The billionaire's head snapped up as much as his restraints would allow him, growling.

"No need to be _rude_ ," he said woodenly, forcing his rage down as Wintergreen had told him. "We," he ground out, "are here for the same purpose."

The Batman didn't reply, but Slade really hadn't expected him to, the gag would be impossible, even for him, to get out of.

"Yes, _quite_ ," Slade forced out, as if the man - who had never earned the right to be a father, goddammit - had spoken. "Before we enter this partnership, I want you to know how much I despise you. Because I do, with every fiber of my being. I'm only doing this because I want _my son_ back home, and I recognize that with your. . . assistance," he ground out, "I can achieve my goal more quickly."

"Once I release you, you will make no attempt for escape, and since I know how very _clever_ you are, detective," Slade stopped gritting his teeth to smirk, "because if the allure of seeing your _former_ protege again wasn't enough, I have probes in every member of the Justice Brats Team. How do you say, ah, capsiche?"

A muffled noise erupted from Batman.

"My thoughts exactly. Wintergreen, let's get on the road."

Slade noticed a desperate line to the man's face.

 _Now he knows how it feels,_ he thought, _to lose a son._

Oddly, it wasn't at satisfying as he'd thought it would be.

* * *

Grayson's heart was pounding in his ears.

It didn't matter where he went, it seemed like _everyone_ was out to get him.

He didn't know why, but what did he know?

Grayson had never actually ran through what he knew. "All right," he mumbled as he cracked the window to an abandoned apartment building. "You're thirteen, every single person in the world either wants to kill or abduct you. . ." That was all he knew.

 _C'mon Wilson, get it together,_ his mind scolded, and then stopped, because he wasn't a Wilson and he wasn't a Wayne and he wasn't a Grayson. He took a deep breath. "You're Nightwing, you can be whoever you want, you've had two butlers within five years. You know six languages, how to torture, and how to kill with your eyes blindfolded and limbs bound with chains. You are the greatest gymnast in the world, can stay awake for four days straight and have an efficiency rate of 92%. You aren't a hero, you aren't a villain, you're just you."

Maybe it would be best for him to get his memories back, but to do that, he was sure he would have to enlist the Justice League, and that was the last thing he wanted.

He definitely couldn't crawl back to Slade and ask for his memories.

Maybe if he triggered a strong enough emotional reaction?

But the only place Richard Grayon - the boy he'd been - really had, was C.C. Haly's Cirque de Internationale.


	15. The Valley

**HAHAHAHA YES SPT's PROFILE PIC IS GOOD FOR SOMETHING! XD**

 **also, Boston is NOT an oc, but an actual DC hero**

 ***pop half was dicks godfather but CPS wouldn't let him stay with the circus sooo**

* * *

Memories came in flashes, like tiny corners in a four thousand piece puzzle. They didn't show the full picture, not by a long shot, but the huge, smiling crowds and striped canvas assuaged _everything_ for a little while.

They were in Russia, the place he now remembered was where his mother grew up, and it felt like his mind was overflowing with happy memories.

He snuck into the animals tent.

Grayson - or Dick, he supposed, since he felt that was his name for the first time since waking up all those months ago - took a deep breath.

Something almost knocked him over with its force. He whipped around, coming face to trunk with an elephant.

 _Zitka_.

"Hi," he breathed, feeling a warm sensation spread through his chest. "Do you remember me, girl?" His voice broke a little.

She nudged him with her trunk, wrapping it around him. He hugged her back immediately.

"It's been a long time, hasn't it?" Grayson mumbled into the crinkly gray skin. He laughed slightly, feeling tears crawl out of his eyes. "I didn't even know I missed you - didn't know what I was missing."

He looked up at the elephant. Her black eyes gazed down at him warmly. "I guess it's true what they say then," Dick said, feeling immensely small and like he was eight years old again. It was a good feeling.

He hugged Zitka again.

"Elephants _don't_ ever forget."

* * *

Slade didn't speak at all during the drive, and Bruce made no effort to break the silence.

For a brief moment, he'd been disgusted with himself for working with a mercenary, a criminal, a killer, but then he'd thought, _Dick_.

For Dick, this was just the beginning of what he'd do.

The threat with the Team was empty. They'd managed to eliminate all traces of the probes thanks to Ray Palmer.

They were dressed inconspicuously, or at least as inconspicuously as a one-eyed man and and his forced companion (in handcuffs) could appear.

Slade was extremely intelligent, but he'd obviously made a mistake that had caused Dick to slip out of his grasp. The same way Bruce had.

Bruce was already mentally plotting the takedown of the mercenary. They would find Dick, and Bruce could somehow regain his son's trust. While Deathstroke was emotional and/or wounded from the inevitable battle to retrieve Dick, Bruce would go on the offensive and beat the man into a bloody pulp for stealing his child.

He would save Dick.

* * *

Slade had no intention of letting Wayne take back _his_ boy.

He'd entertain the man's poorly hidden follies, but the Batman needed to understand that he was unnecessary, an accessory to help make the process easier, but not strictly _required_.

 _Then why haven't you found him yet_? The obnoxious voice in Slade's head crowed.

"Shut up," he rasped, tightening his hands on the steering wheel when he realized how unprecedented the outburst just have seemed in the dead silence of the vehicle.

His fingernails left half moons a centimeter deep in the leather.

Wayne's eyes flicked to him casually, as if Slade was just another _psycho_ that the Batman _wouldn't deal with_.

The cuffs on the man's wrists jingled, distracting him slightly.

 _Dammit, Wilson_ , the considerably less obnoxious voice growled. _Get your act together. At this rate, the Batman will get him_.

His speedometer rose from 40 to 180 in a matter of seconds.

* * *

Pop Haly was making his final checks around the show (a lesson it had taken the lives some of the best people he'd known to learn) when he saw it.

"Boston," he whispered urgently to the acrobat.

"Yeah, boss?" The kid replied.

"Is it just me. . ." Jack trailed off.

"Or is that Dickie Grayson hugging his elephant," the nineteen year old finished eagerly.

"Dickie!" Jack exclaimed.

The boy turned away from Zitka, looking at them with those same big blue eyes Mary had. He looked confused, and then surprised, and then elated. "Pop! Boston!"

It was most definitely Richard Grayson.

Jack jogged towards his pseudo-grandson, wrapping him in a hug the moment he could. He sunk to his knees and his godson* followed suit. "I was so worried about you, kid, who knows what kind of trouble you were up to?"

The thin arms around him gripped tighter.

"My god, Dickie, don't scare people like that," Boston said fiercely, coming up behind them.

"Sorry, B," the boy swiped at his face with his oversized blue sweatshirt. "Didn't mean to. Had to. . . find myself, you know?"

"You're thirteen, knucklehead," Boston replied, pulling Dick from Jack to give him a tight hug and a noogie. "You sound like you're having a mid-life crisis."

Dick shrugged, but his eyes weren't as bright as usual. "Something like that."

"Well," Jack clapped his hands together, keeping an arm around his boy's neck. "I'm just glad you're all right, _meu păsărică_. I think this calls for an after show party, no? We will dedicate this performance to you! The little bird who finally came home!"

"Home," Dick repeated pensively, as if the word was new on his tongue. "I'm home."


	16. The Way

****Okay, ummmm, do you guys remember the chapter where Bruce first met Renegade and Deathstroke on that Rooftop? That was set five months after the first chapter. Sorry! I wasn't very clear aboutit it and I got a couple of questions. . . That's why it's the whole "months" thing**

 **My school had like, half the week off, so I figured I should update.**

* * *

"Sleep."

" _No_ ," Bruce ground out reflexively. His answer would have been the same regardless of the statement, he was sure, but he certainly wasn't going to allow an assassin to drive him around while he was _unconscious_.

"I would hardly _kill_ you," Slade told him blandly, lifting an eyebrow. "You haven't fulfilled your purpose yet."

Bruce stayed silent.

Slade made a sharp turn. "I promise nothing _after_ that, of course. An unnecessary risk, as you know. Besides, killing someone during their sleep is dishonorable," the corner of Slade's mouth twitched. "Not to mention. . . _cliche_."

Bruce's blood boiled. Why was he doing this? Why was he working with this. . . this monster? _Dick,_ he reminded himself, _Dick spent five_ months _with this monster. You can handle a few days to save him._ He caught himself before he could say anything that jeopardized his chance to save his son.

The older man threw a holographic computer at him. "I'd tracked him as far as Blüdhaven, but after that," Slade paused. "He appeared to vanish. But I understand that he took up the guise of, ahem, ' _Nightwing_ '. You have to figure out where he went after that."

 _Clark_ , Bruce realized. _Why didn't he tell me that he spoke to Dick?_

"No witty retort, detective?" Slade asked, humming slightly.

"I _despise_ you."

"Rest assured, detective," the mercenary replied casually. "The feeling is mutual."

* * *

Grayson stared at the cotton candy in front of him.

It felt surreal, like he was living someone else's life. The bustling crowd unnerved him and excited him at the same time. The acts awed and bored him at the same time. He caught himself making remarks on their form or how they could improve it.

 _This_ was what it felt like to be Dick Grayson.

He liked it.

No hits to perform, no contracts to make. He couldn't help but think of that city, Blüdhaven, and who was going to protect it.

He couldn't be Dick Grayson at the same time he was Nightwing. Or. . . _could_ he?

The final act concluded, and a raccous applause filled the massive tent.

" _Hey_ , kid," Boston called, white and black face paint streaked off. "What'd you think? How'd I do?"

"Mmm," Grayson said, "I'd give you, like, a six, maybe."

"A _six_? I did a quadruple somersault!"

"6.5," Grayson offered, purposely bumping into the older boy.

Boston laughed good naturedly, slinging an arm around his shoulders. "Whatever, rich kid. Has your daddy taken you to any better shows?"

"No," Grayson replied immediately. _He's not my father._

"What's the deal with that, anyways?" The other acrobat asked him. "Did you run away?"

 _Boston_ , his mind whined, _why'd you have to ask that_? _Now I have to kill y- I mean,_ his mind stuttered. Killing made things very simple, he had to admit, but if he'd gathered anything from his visit to the Kryptonian, it was that he didn't _want_ to. _Just tell him the truth._

He shoved his hands into his sweatshirt pocket. ". . . I got abducted by this evil mercenary who wanted to train me to kill people so he took at my memories and now he and the Batman are fighting," he said in one breath.

Boston was silent for a moment, before breaking into laughter. "Th-that was really good. But for real."

 _I don't_ know _what happened_ , he realized. I _don't know how Slade got me_. "I don't know," he answered somewhat honestly. "I ran away," _from Slade_ , he didn't add, "because he was trying to be my father and I thought that was okay but it really wasn't because I already had one," he blifted, thinking of how Dick Grayson must have felt with Bruce Wayne and John Grayson, rather than Slade. He knawed on his lower lip, before repeating himself, "I already have a father."*

The arm around his shoulders tightened as if it could protect him from the rest of the world.

Grayson appreciated the effort.

* * *

Wally felt the treadmill's rubber begun to singe beneath his feet.

Only three things were keeping up with his speed. The treadmill, the heart monitor, and the makeshift speedometer.

 _Faster_ , he urged himself.

The lines on the oscilloscope began to reverse itself, but his speed continued to climb. The treadmill's belt started to go backwards.

He yelped, leaping off the machine.

"Wally?" His mother called, poking her head in the door. "Are you all right?"

He took a deep breath. "What," Wally began, breathing heavily, "what's today's date?"

"May fifth," she said carefully. ". . .Why?"

Wally gasped, leaning against the wall, clutching his head. "The. . . the fifth?" Wally repeated weakly, and _that couldn't possibly have been his voice that was too high_.

She nodded.

He started laughing, - just a little, to his credit - hysterically. "It's the _fifth_! Mom! Mom, I did it!"

"What, honey?" His mother asked concernedly.

He smiled. "It was the sixth, and - and now it's the fifth and I -"

"Wally," his mother said again. "What do you mean?""

"Mom," Wally couldn't stop grinning. "I went back in time."

His mother blinked. "Oh dear."


	17. The Beginning

**Long time no read. Um I was busy and had really bad writers block. So review with your wonderful ideas! Especially for what you want to happen to Grayson!**

* * *

" _I'm telling you Mister Haly, you never know what could happen, especially not in a city like Gotham."_

Grayson held his hands in front of the sunset, watching their silhouette shake in front of the orange and red sky. He framed the bustling crowd with his palms, trying to spot any people of interest.

" _Mary and Giovanni "John" Grayson, approximated time of death; 9:37 PM."_

 _Stop it,_ he chided himself, curling his trembling fingers into fists to stop their erratic motion. _Just calm down_.

" _My name is Bruce. I'm so sorry for your loss_. . . _I know how painful it can be_."

He frowned. A blonde girl sauntered beside a small family, wordlessly sneaking a wallet out of the father's pocket.

" _What do you mean he's going to Juvie? He's just a child!_ "

Grayson swung his feet off the side of the trailer, watching the crowd chatter and mill around. The thief flashed a smile at the strongman.

" _Pop_ ," he'd said, " _please, please don't let them take me, I'll be good, I'll_ \- "

He considered jumping off the trailer to confront her, but it wasn't his business. Wasn't his job.

 _"Mr. Wayne here would like to take you in."_

Karma would catch up to her eventually. It caught up to everyone.

" _You're the Batman. Let me help — I could help you!"_

Grayson sighed. He couldn't continue to stay with the circus without earning his keep. It wasn't fair to them, and it made him feel useless.

" _Robin, meet Kid Flash."_

Most of North America was off limits then. Especially Blüdhaven. Staying with the circus wouldn't satisfy him — he'd been a hero then a mercenary, and those experiences were kind of hard to top. He wasn't even fourteen yet, it wasn't as though he could backpack through Europe — or even the rest of Russia, really, without someone getting suspicious. If he could lead his pursuers around they might - no. He really doubted they'd give up.

" _We're ready to use what you taught us_."

Except, Grayson wasn't ready at all.

* * *

Barry ran a hand through his hair, looking pensive. "You're telling me that you went back in time an _entire day_ barely even trying _?_ "

"Yes." Wally grinned. It sounded a lot cooler hearing someone else say it. Especially the _Flash_. His parents — his father especially — weren't really ones for compliments, especially since they a) didn't really support his, ahem, _extracurriculars_ , and b) they weren't speedsters or capes themselves so they had a hard time understanding. . . _it._

"High five, 'cause that's _awesome_ ," Barry said, smirking.

Wally went for a hug instead. "I _know_! Can you contact Batman?"

His uncle's smile dropped. "You know, Wal, I don't think that he'll. . . He's dealing with his own stuff -"

"I know," Wally repeated. "I think I can help him — and Robin."

* * *

"Russia."

Slade glanced at him. "Russia?"

"Haly's," Bruce said, berating himself for not figuring it out sooner. At least he could trust that Haly cared about him and would keep him safe. Or at least try. Or not turn him into a child soldier.

"Ah. The _circus_ ," Slade murmured, crinkling his nose. "How was he possibly able to get there?"

" _I_ trained him," he reminded the mercenary. _And I'm sure your training regiment provided plenty of tips_.

"As did I, Wayne, but out of Blüdhaven, a massive andheavily monitored city, to a remote part of the largest country in the world with hardly a trace is impressive, even you have to admit that," the assassin frowned.

"Did you really expect anything less?" he asked, trying to channel Alfred and not beat the man to a pulp.

"No," Slade answered. "Of course not."

Bruce didn't respond, trying to imagine how terrified his ward — son, he reminded himself — must have been. Must be. If Dick's equivalent of Bruce's time with the League of Shadows was a trip to the circus. . .

 _When_ Bruce got him back — which would be _hell_ to explain to the media — he'd. . . he'd take Dick to the circus as much as he wanted. Take an entire month off of work. Play basketball every week - every day even. Up Dynamic Duo time. Limit or even stop his time with the Team. Never let the boy out of his sight again. Hell, he'd even let Dick drive the Batmobile.

"You're going practically triple the speed limit," Bruce commented, eyeing both the driver and the glovebox where a weapon was certainly held. He hated the plan that formed in his mind.

"As though you don't want to get to the airport as soon as possible?" Slade replied, too quickly, too smoothly.

Bruce grunted in response. He could see how Wilson intended it to play out. His hand was subtly slipping off the wheel, to grasp a weapon on the side.

He clicked open the glove box.

"If you don't stop," Bruce rasped, "that semi truck will crash into us."

Ammunition, the beginnings of a bomb, and several pistols.

"It won't."

He hated the sight of guns.

"Hn."

It was unloaded. Good. What he was about to do made his stomach churn.

". . . "

He pointed the unloaded gun at the older man. The sick surge of power he got from the mercenary's shocked face didn't assuage his guilt. "Because this," he began, "is where we part."

Slade snarled, grey eye fixed on him. "Well-"

The semi-truck smashed into the car.


	18. The Castle

"This is Officer Gandy, reporting an uh- 11-24, abandoned vehicle, I think it was - oh god, it was in a crash, it's bad, and it's burned, so _bad_ , it's all black, oh my _god_ , no sign of another vehicle, um, so I think a 20001 — that's hit and run for a felony, y-yeah?"

"This is T-D, Officer Gandy, report, are there survivors and can you describe the scene?"

"Oh, uh. Sure." She swallowed, stomach completing a Shaposhnikova. _Get it_ _together_ _, Layla, tell him. If you can't take a little bit of. . . gore. . . then why the hell are you a cop? Just do it. And stop saying bad — you joined the police so there would be_ _less_ _bad._

 _"_ Officer Gandy, do you receive?"

"Yes, sir, I do," she answered, bracing herself, "I do receive. I believe there is a 10-54, possible dead body. With the state of this, it's unlikely anyone survived. " Layla knelt down, inhaling sharply as it registered. "Make that a 10-45D. There's one body, dead, burned severely, but -"

The airbags on the passenger side was deployed. That told her that at the time, someone had been in it. "I believe there was a passenger. They are now absent, and no calls have been received from this area of anything suggesting. . . something like this."

"10-4, Gandy, is that all?"

 _God, I wish it was_. "No, sir, the victim has several guns, what looks like a bomb —mostly intact which leads me to think it was not activated, and -"

"Gandy," the voice interrupted, voice scratchy and. . .emergent? "Can you describe the victim?"

"Very badly burned, but he's got an eyepatch, although I'm not sure how it failed to melt, most of his — at least I think it's a male — hair has been scorched off, but I presume it was rather long and. . . gray?"

 _Breathe. Breathe. Breathe_.

The car shifted farther into the ditch, ash fluttering through the air. "Oh!" she exclaimed, hand sliced on the door. The movement jostled the corpse, and it rolled on its arm. "I think I see a tattoo. . . says Adeline?"

". . ."

"Hello?"

"Officer Gandy, I'm going to need you to retreat, the FBI is on their way. Go back to the squad car and await their arrival. 10-29F."

"U-Understood," she answered, fairly certain she was about to gag.

The FBI. 10-29F. That meant that the victim -

-just looked at her.

She shrieked.

* * *

Bruce stumbled away from the crime scene just before the police officer arrived.

 _The_ Bruce Wayne could not be seen in an overturned, severely burnt car with Deathstroke the Terminator. The semi-truck had collided with Slade's side, and in Bruce's position on the passenger side, coupled with his physical superiority and the foresight that the truck was indeed coming, had saved his life, and, likely, ended Slade's. They'd allowed _him_ to escape, however.

Not unscathed, his throbbing head and injured leg reminded him, but alive.

And conscious throughout the entire affair. He'd seen the truck driver get out of the car, their horrified look, and their return to the wheel, where they sped away from the scene.

 _The scene._

The best guess as to his location had to be somewhere in Pennsylvania, but if he intended to get anywhere near an airport — which wouldn't normally be a challenge for him, as one of the richest men in the country — he'd have to clean himself up.

He couldn't possibly have resembled a billionaire — he must have looked more like a half-dead crazed lunatic, dripping blood and blanketed with ash. Which could've gotten him somewhere in Gotham, but certainly not here.

Obviously he didn't have a cell phone, which left him with very few options, especially considering how isolated the area was.

Bruce was so _close_. And he had to get to Russia before the circus left. Before he lost his son again. If he did, Bruce didn't know that he could find him again.

He sighed before cupping his hands around his mouth. " _SUPERMAN_!"

* * *

"Wally, I just don't know."

The redhead opened his mouth in protest, but Barry held up his hand. "Listen. It's a great idea, an amazing one in fact, but it's taken you your entire run as Kid Flash-" Barry cut off, eyes wide and solemn. "Okay, don't take that as a great pun, because that's not how it's meant. But it's taken your entire run as Kid Flash to go back in time twenty four hours, there's no way you'll be able to go back five months."

"What about you, then?" Wally insisted. "You could do it! You've run into different _dimensions_ before!"

Barry shook his head. It just wasn't possible. "Every time you go back in time, you don't -" he groaned. "It's hard to explain. Imagine that you avert one terrible thing from happening."

Wally nodded emphatically. " _Yeah_?"

"But by undoing that action, you could cause three more, even worse things to happen, because that one thing blocked other disasters."

"So like, by rescuing a thirteen year old kid, we could start World War III?" Wally asked sarcastically.

"Yes." Barry nodded. "And that's if you're lucky."

* * *

Clark winced, covering his ears. "Ow."

"You okay, Smallville?" Lois asked, gaze never shifting from her laptop. "Hey, can you talk to Jimmy about the picture for my Lovobirsk Gang article? I need his _best_ picture. It's going to make the front page, I know."

"Uh, sure, be back in a few."

 _No need to yell at me Bruce._

* * *

 **10-45D dead 10-54 possible dead body10-29f victim wanted for felony/felonies**

 **Have a really great winter break (if you get one) and happy holidays!**

 **also, review please.**


	19. The Pact

**Um. Okay, so I've gotten a lot of questions on the titles of the chapters, and um. I only really planned to do it for the first few, and then I felt obligated to continue it, plus I stole a bunch of lines from Halsey songs. BUT! If you'd like a deeper explanation for some of the less obvious names like the castle or the mountain. Um. I can provide those. Ahem. Make them up. I suppose with the castle it represents Bruce's emancipation from Slade and his reclaimed hope, which, in his own mind, helps him and puts him on a pedestal, making him a 'king'. Slade literally means a valley, so that's kind of where that title came from. The mountain symbolizes an obstacle to overcome, something that from, a distance seems simple and easy to 'beat' but upon actual sight of it — i.e., in real life — one realizes that the accounts were not hyperboles in any form, and they understand the magnanimity of what they've undertaken.**

 **GEOGRAPHY: _the circus, I think, is in Smolenosk, Russia, so they're headed to the sizable but forgotten country of Belar us, presumably the capital of Minsk or the populous city Vitsyebsk. I, uh, really like Russian history and what surrounds it._**

 **Okay, if you were looking for specifications...you got 'em.**

* * *

"Um, how about _no_ , kid?" Boston snarked.

"C'mon, Pop," Grayson pleaded, turning to face the ring leader, "I'll meet up with you at the train station in a little bit, I just. . . need some time."

"Time? You got five whole months on your own with nobody knowing where you were! Everyone thought you were dead — how's that for time?"

" _Boston_ ," Jack warned. "But, Dick, you understand what he means?"

"I guess," he said slowly.

"We don't want to lose you again, son. That's already happened twice, with that Wayne fellow," Dick grimaced at the mention, "and then to your soul-searching debacle," Pop knelt down, "which you have yet to tell us about, by the way. _Plus_ , if the press finds out we've got you, well, I'm willin' to bet your guardian'll have a lawsuit on us in an instant."

"But please, Pop?" Dick begged, his bright blue eyes wide. "Just a couple hours and then I won't wander far from the troupe, I promise!"

Dick didn't know _why_ he wanted to stay. Maybe it was less about staying and more about not leaving, he mused. Did he want to be a nomad with scattered memories for the rest of his life? _No_ , he was sure, but there were worse things to be. Far worse things.

The man sighed. "Be careful, okay?"

* * *

"What _happened_ to you, Bruce?"

Bruce scowled. _The usual. Manipulated by a mercenary who'd kidnapped and brainwashed my son, forced to help him, defied too many of my morals, caught in a car crash._ "I don't want to talk about it."

"I see," Clark replied slowly, floating down from his position. "And what do you need?"

His fingers twitched at his side. He didn't _need_ anything from the Kryptonian, he'd merely called him here because the alien's capabilities made him temporarily useful - "I have a lead on Dick," he said simply.

"Dick?" the reporter asked, eyebrows furrowing behind the - _oh, wait,_ he sneered, _there is no mask_. "As in. . . Grayson?"

 _No, the other Dick who I'd ally myself with Deathstroke fo_r. "Obviously," he ground out instead.

Clark ran a hand through his hair. "But. . . I thought you already knew where Dick was."

"No." Bruce frowned.

Blue eyes widened. "You mean, you've had no contact with him at _all_?"

"Kent, I swear-" he cut himself off. _He's . . .right._ His lip curled. _You do need him. _ "No. I haven't seen him in months."

 _Five and a half months. 163 days. 3,912 hours. Approximately. . . 234,720 minutes,_ he calculated with a start.

"He came and saw me," the Kryptonian was saying. "He asked me about the code — I should have realized!"

" _What_."

"I told him a story, I just - no. God, I just assumed that you knew -"

"You assumed _wrong_. You didn't think to call me?" Bruce demanded.

Clark closed his eyes. "Would you have picked up if I had?" he rebutted.

 _You don't have Kryptonite on you. You cannot punch him. You'd break your hand_.

Bruce took a sharp breath. "And?"

The farm-boy looked at him blankly.

"Was he. . . all right?" Would he be the same? _Every last detail. Tell me every last detail._

Clark gave a tiny smile. "He was. . . physically unharmed, yes." Bruce scowled at him. "He was - Bruce, he's not the sweet little kid we knew. He's. . . different. More serious. Less cackley and more broody. He seemed tired. God, he looked like he was dead on his _feet_. He's grown a little too," Clark added at Bruce's indicative gaze. _Every detail_. "Not that short anymore. Er- army style haircut. He's almost fourteen now, right?"

"Correct." Batman felt his face morph back into a scowl. "He's in Russia."

"Russia?" Clark asked incredulously. "How'd he get there?" Bruce just glared at him. ". . . Right. Batman's sidekick."

* * *

"I have some ground rules if — _if_ — I'm coming with you," Grayson said as calmly as he could, staring the cowled man in the eye. Really, he should have been watching Superman, but Batman reminded him much more of Deathstroke, and on that level he had experience. _Show_ _no fear, no weakness._

Having both the Justice League's leader and their most powerful member _staring into his soul_ should have intimidated him. It didn't.

"What are your conditions, Dick?" Superman smiled gently, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Firstly," he began, prying the fingers off his sweatshirt, "no touching." He raised an eyebrow, trying to gauge their reactions.

"Understood," Batman rasped, folding his arms across his chest. "What else?"

Grayson thought for a long moment. What _did_ he want? "Don't brainwash me," he blurted.

The two men exchanged glances. Grayson frowned — he'd hardly thought that it was much to ask.

"Is that going to be a _problem_?" Was it _normal_ to have someone you considered your guardian try and brainwash you? Beclipse according to his experiences -

"Not at all," Superman assured him quickly, "just surprised that you thought you had to ask."

"Well, that's what you do, isn't it?" he narrowed his eyes as it dawned on him. "You dress your kids up in neon tights and march them out to face psychos and murderers." _Like Deathstroke_ , he realized with a start. _Murderers like me_. He schooled his expression.

Superman frowned, as if his analysis was _wrong_. It was one of the only things that Slade had been right about, Grayson was sure. Actually, Slade had been right about a lot of things, he just failed to do right in regard to it. "That's not it at all."

"Oh?" Grayson probed, feeling oddly bitter as he continued in his diatribe, "because Ro- _I_ was nine when I started on the streets, eight during training."

Superman opened his mouth to protest, but Batman stepped forward. "You _remember_?"

 _Way to not give them an advantage_. He didn't answer, wrapping his arms around his knees.

"Dick," Superman said, looking stricken. "How much do you remember?"

He rolled his eyes, trying to conceal his unease. "The basics."

"Can you elaborate?" the man-who-wasn't-actually-a-man-just-a-superpowered-alien asked.

"The circus," he gestured to the area that had just a few hours earlier hosted his first — _only_ , really — family, "the. . . _their_ funeral, you and your identity," he looked behind the Kryptonian to Batman, "which you did a terrible job of hiding by the way, parts of being Robin, a-a team, and then. . ." he trailed off.

"Deathstroke," Superman finished, grimacing.

"Yes," he agreed, leaning against the side of the building.

A short silence ensued. Grayson plotted the few possible escape routes — although, from the people or from the awkwardness of the situation he didn't know — and waited for his would-be captors to make the next move. Whether they'd try to persuade him further that he should go to Wayne Manor or ask for his other conditions, he'd be prepared.

 _The enemy of my enemy is my friend._


	20. The Quality of Falsehood

**Um this is short and like 5000 years late but**

* * *

Alfred was buzzing.

 _We're bringing him home._

They had failed to elaborate, because that, of course, would have been made far too much sense. What he would have given to demand them to put Dick on the comm and to hear his voice —

He would hear it soon, and that would have to be enough. Presumably, Superman would fly them home, effectively cutting down the flight time.

 _Home_.

Richard would be home for the first time in what felt like an eternity and _Alfred_ — well, Alfred was not prepared.

Nor was the manor, for that matter. He'd have to turn up the sheets in his bedroom, dust, and he'd like to have fresh goods out for him (which seldom failed to lighten the boy's mood following patrol, but Alfred worried that this incident was different entirely).

He thought back to the boy in the video that they had watched, unblinkingly, four hundred and thirty seven times, then to the perhaps too eager-to-please child that Bruce had brought home out of the blue, and finally to the thirteen year old he'd known.

It had been a long time, he acknowledged. _And it takes so very little to change._

He inhaled sharply. "'Hope is a waking dream,'" he murmured, before getting to work.

* * *

He wasn't the type to lie to himself.

It was nearly an involuntary human trait, unavoidable even for the best, but he largely avoided it. Truth went hand-in-hand with Justice, and they must be viewed holistically. And justice was certainly his goal.

He wasn't even the type to lie to others — his charades were calculated moves, but he rarely _said_ outright untruths. Simply led them to believe things due to a garish difference in...everything between his two identities.

He wished he could.

Because if Bruce ever encountered Deathstroke again, he wasn't sure that his morals would remain intact.

* * *

"So, um, here we are," Clark said, fumbling with his hands as he spoke. "Er, Dick."

He'd been craning his neck to look at the manor as if he'd never seen it before, and it looked startlingly similar to the first time Bruce brought him here, when Dick's parents had only just— _just_...

How much did he remember after all?

Dick turned haltingly, as if only just realizing (remembering?) that that was his _name_ and he was expected to respond to it accordingly. "Yes?"

Clark extended a hand, smiling, like that would help jog the boy's recollection of the last five years. Really. "Um, good luck. I, uh, hope you remember."

His blue eyes flicked from the hand, then to Clark a few times, but whether it was appraising or with disgust, he couldn't tell.

(Lie: disgust for the motion, appraising for the man offering it.)

He was having a hard time reading him at all, really.

(Lie: A _comforting_ falsehood over an _unpleasant_ truth.)

" _Merci beaucoup_ ," the boy said finally, and slowly shook hands with him.

"Uh," he nodded at Bruce, "I guess this is it. I'll leave you to it." Clark looked emphatically at Bruce, eyes wide and lip bitten in concern. 'Good luck to you too,' he mouthed when Dick's haze left him.

In any other situation, Bruce would have scoffed, either not deigned to give a reply, or said something along the terms of _I don't need it._ More likely the former. He looked at his ward, his son, his Robin. He nodded in acknowledgement, and Clark grinned at him.

And promptly flew off.

"He keeps a secret identity like that?" Dick asked, when the Kryptonian was no longer even a primary colored speck in the distance.

"Shocking, I know," Bruce agreed. If he had to... _banter_...to help his protege, he would — begrudgingly.

"I don't even know where to start — the hair out for DNA, or the lack of gloves, or the fact that his entire face is just _there,_ or-or—" Dick sighed, and despite the cirumstances, Bruce couldn't help but feel an odd satisfaction in Dick finding fault in Superman, his professed hero.

Unbidden, his lips quirked upwards. "Let's go," he said, "there's someone I want you to meet."

* * *

Whoever was in charge of the universe hated Grayson.

And, okay, yeah, it'd been funny the first few times his luck ran out, when his life got so messed up that he'd thought being mentored by one of the world's most dangerous mercenaries who also happened to be his kidnapper and the cause of his amnesia was normal. But the joke was getting old, and he didn't enjoy being a punchline.

But _hell_.

"Agent A?"


End file.
